


Black Sand

by Sed



Series: Across Enemy Lines [3]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Rimming, Size Difference, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2019-10-10 06:27:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 39,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17420792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sed/pseuds/Sed
Summary: Anduin faces difficulties as king. Saurfang and Genn continue to resist working together.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This took so much longer than I thought, mostly because of the holidays and my in-laws coming to stay with us. I had originally intended for it to be part one of two, but I'm thinking that it may end up three or four chapters long by the end. We'll see.
> 
> In the meantime, please note that this series is now tagged as a canon-divergent AU, since I'm ignoring or changing a significant amount of the canon story in order to write something I think is a bit more fun. I knew they wouldn't give us an orc in Stormwind.

“I had hoped a bit of time might see an end to this… affair.”

“You make it sound as though you think I’m merely using him to scratch an itch, Genn,” Anduin said quietly. They were standing together in the small garden that overlooked the lake. The carefully manicured trees cast a dappled shadow across them both, and the sounds of the rising city filtered in from the open walls that surrounded them. It was as much peace as one could find in the keep, although Anduin suspected neither of them felt particularly peaceful that morning.

“If I did, I might suggest alternative means of _scratching,_ ” Genn answered. They weren’t facing one another, but his frown was clear enough from only a quick glance. While the intervening weeks had seen the rage fade somewhat from Genn’s eyes, he had nevertheless persisted in his belief that Saurfang was merely using Anduin, manipulating him in some dark fashion. “There are individuals who could be called upon to provide certain services, if desired,” he added far too casually. “Individuals with a great deal of discretion.”

“I am not simply looking for a warm body to share my bed.”

“No, indeed,” Genn scoffed, “as I understand it he prefers to sleep on the floor.” He finally turned then, and even from the side his gaze burned into Anduin’s like dragon fire. “Have you learned nothing from the past two years? From what I’ve taught you—what your _father_ taught you? What would he think of this depravity?”

“That isn’t fair,” Anduin said hotly, turning now to match Genn’s stare. “And you know it isn’t.” Although they had hardly ceased their debate over the matter since that first uncomfortable evening, Genn had never before stooped to invoking the memory of Anduin’s father as a means of pressing his point. If his grimace was any indication he found the tactic just as distasteful as Anduin did. Nevertheless, he stood firm, and made no move to excuse himself. Sensing the treacherous path before them, Anduin redirected the conversation—for both their sakes. “What I do behind closed doors has no bearing on who I am as king, nor is it anyone’s business but my own.”

Genn was already shaking his head before Anduin had even finished speaking. “You are more wrong than you know, my boy. What do you suppose your allies will do when they learn you have taken an enemy to your bed?”

“He _isn’t_ our enemy, Genn. You must accept that,” Anduin insisted for perhaps the tenth time in recent memory. “If my word on the matter isn’t enough for you, then surely the care he has shown with me when—”

“Please,” Genn snapped, a subtle growl shadowing the words, hinting at the thin veneer of control he wielded over his own temper. He held up a hand between them. “It is both my duty and my privilege to advise you,” he continued more calmly, although that too felt almost brittle. “Whether or not you choose to heed my advice is beyond my control, but it will not stop me from offering it regardless. There is little else I can do; I will never accept this—this—”

Anduin bit back on another disappointed sigh. He had endured so many disparaging epithets already, one more hardly seemed necessary. He chose instead to intervene before Genn could grasp whatever word he was searching for. “I am truly sorry for any discomfort this has caused you, Genn,” he said honestly, if a bit clipped. “I hope you know that was never my intention. In truth, I would have preferred you had never learned of what Varok—” Genn made a displeased sound in his throat and turned away sharply. Anduin took a moment and then pressed on. “What has happened between Varok and I. Had you not, I feel that you might have already come to accept him as our ally.”

“Unlikely.”

“Surely you can see how timely his defection has been, how much it has done for our cause,” Anduin insisted. He refused to go so far as to actually beg for understanding; when all was said and done, he did not require Genn Greymane’s permission to take a lover.

His approval was… another matter.

“You mistake him if you believe this well-timed spirit of cooperation is anything more than temporary,” Genn scoffed. “A convenient arrangement that works to his benefit. Tell me, when the Banshee Queen has been defeated, when Lord Saurfang has returned to his beloved Horde, do you imagine that it will matter how many times you’ve given yourself to him? Do you believe those savages will cease their endless campaign to slaughter the good people of this land simply because he was relatively _gentle_ with you?”

There was more than enough to answer in what Genn had said, but Anduin only replied, “There is good in the Horde, Genn. I’ve seen it for myself.”

Genn came closer and said gravely, “There is also a great deal of evil, my boy, and I know you have seen that as well.” When he stepped back again his brow had drawn tight, and his expression turned sorrowful. “I fear what may happen if you mistake one for the other, simply because it has come to you clothed in affection,” he nearly whispered.

Anduin said nothing to that. There was nothing he could say that wouldn’t be a mere platitude, and Genn would almost certainly reject it out of hand if he tried. His own answer had conveniently sidestepped the greater issue anyway, and Anduin was keenly aware that Genn probably knew it. What’s more, he knew what it meant. It wasn’t as though Anduin himself had never wondered what would happen if they managed to defeat Sylvanas and her army. Whether the nights spent with one another would mean anything more to Saurfang than a mere distraction—a means of passing the time between war meetings and skirmishes. In truth, Anduin wasn’t even certain of what, exactly, they meant to him. Not a _convenience_ , certainly; whether Genn had known how harsh a blow that word delivered was something Anduin preferred not to dwell on for very long. It was enough that he had said it, and that Anduin almost certainly wouldn’t be able to forget it.

A quiet cough drew both men from their heated exchange, snapping the tension between them like a wire. Genn stood straight and frowned at the intrusion. Mathias Shaw waited at the bottom of the courtyard steps, far enough to pretend ignorance, but close enough to have heard more than he should. Anduin didn’t bother to speculate over how much that might be. Shaw was a spy; he almost certainly knew what was happening within the keep already. Any less and he wouldn’t be fit to perform his duty. His discretion on the matter, however, was simply expected.

“New information out of Zandalar,” was all he said, and Anduin nodded.

“I suppose we’ll have to continue this discussion some other time,” muttered Genn.

“It seems so. Genn, I—”

“See to this,” Genn said. “I’m not going anywhere.” He set a friendly hand on Anduin’s shoulder and gave him a gentle shake. His smile was troubled, but at least it was there; it was comforting to know that even this newest turn of events could not shake Genn’s affection, even if Anduin privately feared that it may have forever weakened his respect.

 

* * *

 

  
Saurfang found Anduin in the armory later that evening, idly worrying at a gouge in his breastplate. He was sitting on the end of a bench, all the pieces of his ornate suit of armor spread out on a worktable before him. Anduin spotted him as he entered, and he set aside the gleaming piece of plate he had been holding, carefully, as though it were a part of some hallowed display. He offered a lopsided smile in greeting. It was boyish—and steeped in despair.

“Your Majesty,” Saurfang said with a slight lift of his chin. He cast a glare at the workmen in the room, all of whom had been—up to the moment he entered—going about their duties and paying no mind to the distraught king in their midst. They were milling about now, finding reasons to glance, to stare, and some making no attempt at all to be subtle about it. Saurfang thought he’d been in the keep long enough for some of the novelty to have worn off; the trepidation, much to his amusement, was proving slower to fade.

Soon the ringing of hammers and the hiss of quenched steel resumed once more, and new arms were ferried from the racks to their proper crates, packed and prepared for shipment to the front. Surrounded by sound as they were, the two found themselves as alone as they could be outside of closed chambers.

Saurfang leaned against the wall behind the bench, standing to Anduin’s left. “What troubles His Highness?” he asked. He glanced at the breastplate and frowned; such obvious damage should have been repaired immediately. He doubted that any force short of an armed uprising could have stopped the smiths from mending their king’s armor.

It took a moment for Anduin to answer, but finally he heaved a great sigh and said, “Far too much to tell.” He sat up straight again and turned a critical look on Saurfang. “And please don’t call me that.”

“I only wish to show proper respect to the High King of the Alliance.”

“You’re mocking me.”

Saurfang looked away to hide the beginnings of a grin. “Never,” he said, and meant it. He didn’t bother to mention that they were surrounded by the castle’s blacksmiths and craftsmen; eyes and ears that could not, under any circumstances, know of their true regard for one another.

Anduin looked up, and he seemed to consider Saurfang for some time. Tension was writ in the lines of his face, but he was fighting it—or fighting himself—and every so often a sliver of something darker would slip through. It quickly became clear that he wasn’t simply distressed. In fact, Saurfang was doubtful that he cared one way or another what titles were used to address him. He was angry. Having spent so long in the company of rage himself, it was easy enough to see. Saurfang would have wagered all the gold in Gallywix’s vault that the boy’s anger had a very familiar target, too.

After what must have been several minutes had passed, Anduin picked up his helm and began to trace the shape of the lion’s muzzle. He turned it over to look inside, and glared into its eyes. “I keep wondering…” he began slowly, carefully picking his way through the words, “if I could have prevented this somehow. If I had only seen what she was planning, taken action sooner. If I had just _listened_ to Genn. Perhaps I could have stopped her, reasoned with her, before so many lives were lost. Before this war even started. If I had acted sooner—if my father—”

“Where do you train?” Saurfang asked, interrupting the tide of self loathing that seemed to have burst forth from somewhere deep within Anduin’s soul.

“What?”

“Your men,” Saurfang explained, “where do they train for battle?”

“There is—” Anduin paused to blow out a breath. “They use the practice yard, behind the barracks. Why do you ask?”

Saurfang shifted his weight and rolled his shoulders back, stretching his muscles in one long, languid motion. He made a show of cracking his neck, and then his back, and huffed a sound like a laugh. “I’ve grown weary of this war, its strategies and the endless parade of _meetings,_ ” he said, lingering on the last word and heaping it with all the disdain he could muster. “These stone walls make my mind feel as dull as an old axe. I must remain sharp if I’m to be of any use to your Alliance.”

Anduin nodded slowly, and Saurfang was sure he was trying to think of a way to solve this latest dilemma. He seemed to have decided that every burden was his to bear, and all the blame belonged to him, as well as the task of atoning for it. “My men can—”

“No.” Saurfang didn’t look at him, but he could still feel Anduin’s shocked stare.  
  
“But—”

He reached back to draw a blade from the closest rack and held it out for Anduin to take. “You,” he said.

 

* * *

 

 

The sky was dark by the time Anduin had managed to convince Saurfang to accept the condition of wooden training blades. Not for his own safety, as he was certain Saurfang would not willingly cause him harm, but rather that of his men. A friendly match in the open yard wouldn’t normally be a cause for concern, but if he allowed Saurfang to brandish live steel, their fight would almost certainly end in bloodshed—and not Saurfang’s. As it was, a half dozen or more of the guards, and even some of the trainees in the nearby barracks, had already caught wind of their little exercise, and the walkway above the yard was quickly filling with eager onlookers.

Of course, standing among them, his arms crossed over his chest, was Genn.

Anduin sighed at his own misfortune. Genn had convinced himself that Saurfang was bound to some dark purpose; that it was only a matter of time before he took advantage of the trust that had been extended to him. This, Anduin feared, would not do much to change that opinion.

But more than that, Anduin felt exposed—in more ways than one. He had not gone down to the armory looking for an invitation to spar. He hadn’t gone down there to talk, either, or evaluate what shape his growing misery had taken that day. Yet somehow, without saying much of anything at all, Saurfang had drawn the truth from him regardless. Anduin had felt all but _compelled_ to honesty from no more than an earnest look. And once the door to all of his many doubts and fears had been opened, there seemed to be no shutting it again. Not until Saurfang had casually declared that he intended for them to beat one another with sticks. It was exactly the sort of bizarre invitation he would have expected from an orc, and yet it still surprised him when he found himself standing in the middle of the yard, wooden sword in hand, waiting to fight. He wasn’t even wearing his armor, nor any other sort of protection. In fact, the mere suggestion of utilizing the padded practice armor worn by the soldiers had earned him such a withering look that Anduin hadn’t bothered to bring it up again.

Some of the men up on the walkway above had begun cheering for him, which only made matters worse. Their enthusiasm was admirable, but under the circumstances he could have done without the unnecessary attention. Before him, Saurfang smirked as the cheers grew in number, and Anduin suppressed a groan. He would be grateful if they could skip the posturing and simply get it over with.

Saurfang, not satisfied with a simple sword, had managed to find an old wooden axe to use instead. It had only a single blade, but he hefted it as though it bore two steel heads. His look was mocking, despite his earlier claim to the contrary, and Anduin could feel his own irritation chipping away at him from within. He felt like a spectacle.

“Well?” Saurfang insisted.

It was raining; a gentle mist that would soak him through to the skin in no time at all. The last remaining daylight had gone. Only torches lit the ground around them.

Anduin had barely moved into position when Saurfang struck; a heavy overhead swing that forced him to one knee before he was able to throw the larger weapon aside and duck out of the way. He came around and swung his own sword in the hopes of landing a hit, but only managed a glancing blow.

The men above were shouting encouragement. Anduin clenched his teeth and growled. He parried another attack and tried for a return thrust, but it was neatly brushed aside, and his sword went skipping into the dark.

Saurfang sneered and asked, “Would you prefer only to fight with an army at your back?” He glanced up at the men gathered around. “Is this not enough for your comfort?”

Even in the heat of battle Anduin had never been so blinded by rage as he was at that moment. He charged, unconcerned with blocks or parries, his missing weapon, or the solid barrier of muscle before him. His shoulder collided with Saurfang’s chest and it was like striking iron barehanded. Saurfang grunted, but he held. They were comically mismatched in size and strength, and while Anduin found that fact rather appealing at other times, the humiliation he felt at his failure only burned deep into him as he frantically thought of what to do next.

It was Saurfang who made the choice for him. He shoved Anduin back, and there was no sure footing for him to rely on; his feet slipped over the wet ground and he went down on his hands and knees, head bowed. When he stood up again he found Saurfang openly leering down at him. Heat rushed to Anduin’s cheeks, and he stomped over to retrieve his sword as the soldiers above encouraged him to stop going easy on his opponent. It did not make him feel better.

“Do you need a moment to recover yourself, _Highness?_ ”

Anduin shook out his arms and made to move back into a ready stance, but instead, at the last second, he whirled and struck a blow at Saurfang’s side, catching him on the hip. The roar that he received was full of shock and anger, and nearly lost in the shouts of the men, who did not seem to mind his admittedly dirty maneuver nearly so much. Anduin caught a smirk from Genn in the torchlight, but he didn’t dare take his eyes from his opponent for long. That hit was likely going to cost him.

Sure enough, Saurfang regrouped with a wild gleam in his eye that Anduin felt should have worried him more than it did; he bore down harder than ever before, and it was all Anduin could do to keep himself standing as he dodged and parried each attack. The clack of wood against wood echoed around the stone walls of the courtyard, and it sounded to Anduin like an entire unit training at once. When he finally landed another hit—this one considerably lighter than the first—he was quick to dance away again, giving Saurfang no room to seek retribution. They continued that way for some time, and soon the movements became more fluid, the motions more predictable. Eventually Anduin started to see the pattern before him. That knowledge, coupled with Saurfang’s clear reluctance to actually hit him with the practice weapon, made him hopeful he might emerge the victor yet.

The rain had picked up by then, turning small puddles into treacherous pools at their feet. Another attack came past his right flank, and he jumped aside. Saurfang pulled back to swing again; this time his blow was met by the wooden blade and thrust aside, giving Anduin a clear path to strike. He came from below, sure that he was clear in his aim, and certain Saurfang would block the attack at the last second. But when the edge of his blade struck flesh there was a sharp and painful crack of wood meeting bone. Saurfang stumbled, one hand clutching his chin where he had been struck, and Anduin drew back with his hands up and the blade down. “I apologize, it was a mistake,” he rushed to explain. He could see the slow trickle of blood beginning where the weapon had managed to slice through the skin. He feared no reprisal, even as Saurfang snarled and his eyes narrowed menacingly, but the men around them were a different story. Swords were half-drawn, and above them Anduin could see Genn leaning out over the yard, his fists clenched tight on the rail.

“I think that’s enough for now,” Anduin announced. He dropped the practice sword to the ground and moved back until he was far enough to put the soldiers at ease. “I shouldn’t have—”

“Do you really think _that_ is enough to put me down?” Saurfang roared. He was grinning, the blood from his chin running down his neck and soaking his tabard. It mixed with the rain and spread through the coarse fabric until the colors mixed together and seemed to become one. His chest heaved and he laughed. “Or do you flee at the sight of blood—even the blood of your enemy?”

There was a gleam in Saurfang’s eyes, regarding him through the shadows cast by the sputtering torchlight. Had he not known the man before him, he might have mistaken the intent behind the challenge. As it was, he had a difficult time hiding the smile that threatened to reveal him. “I thought you weren’t my enemy, Lord Saurfang,” he answered loftily.

Saurfang smirked. “ _Perhaps someday,_ ” he said, the low rumble of his voice carrying through the downpour.

To anyone but Anduin it might have sounded like a threat, but Anduin knew his own words when they were being spoken back to him; he knew them for what they meant. Reassurance, offered in the place where neither one could do for the other what they would have liked. In another time and place he would have swiftly taken Saurfang’s face in his hands and healed the wound. He would have shown him just how truly sorry he was. And in that place Saurfang might have made sure to leave Anduin with no doubts about his own feelings, injured or not.

But for now, surrounded by curious and rather cautious onlookers, and overseen by Genn’s watchful eye, their exchange remained aloof, almost antagonistic. It stirred Anduin’s blood more than he had anticipated, and before he realized what he was doing, he had retrieved the wooden sword and taken an attack stance once more. “Come, then,” he invited.

A proud grin met his challenge, and they each moved to circle the other. It was Anduin who struck first this time; in the back of his mind he knew that hesitation would only insult Saurfang, and there would be no silent understanding then. His blade struck flat on the handle of the wooden axe, and Anduin spun to bring a second blow against the weapon that was still raised to defend. This time Saurfang drew back from the upward swing, anticipating the same move that had landed so cleanly before. He fell back a step, and his boots sunk deep into the mud, but he held, and used Anduin’s own momentum to bring him down. In less time than it took to gasp in surprise, Anduin found himself face-down in the middle of the yard. Mud soaked through his clothes and rain pelted him from above, broken only by the massive shape of an orc looming over him. He looked up to meet a haughty and _very_ satisfied smile.

“Can I offer you a hand, Your Majesty?” Saurfang asked. He was standing on the blade of the practice sword.

Anduin shook his head and made to get up again, but at the last second he reached for the handle of the sword and jerked it back. Saurfang shouted and his feet went out from under him, sending him sprawling back into the mud. As quickly as he could, Anduin fell to his knees over the orc’s chest and brought the wooden blade up under his chin.

“Do you yield?” he asked. He was breathing hard, panting into the cool night air, but it wasn’t _entirely_ because of their battle. Beneath his thighs he could feel Saurfang’s chest heaving and feel the growl working its way up from deep within. Had they been alone, he might have taken advantage of such a position.

But Saurfang’s answer was to roll, and toss Anduin back into the muck of the practice yard. He was up on his feet and moving before Anduin had even wiped the dirt from his face.

“Never,” the orc snarled. His smile had taken on a feral edge, and he hunched his shoulders as he resumed his battle stance.

Anduin responded in kind.

The next time he moved to strike, Saurfang was waiting; he rushed ahead into the attack, driving Anduin back with one massive shoulder until he was pinned between Saurfang’s bulk and the wall of the yard. When he raised his sword arm to attempt to free himself, his wrist was captured in an unbreakable grip, and pinned high above his head. Anduin felt the weapon fall to the ground at his feet as a second hand enveloped his other wrist and secured it with the first. There was little room for misunderstanding when Saurfang leaned in with his full weight and brushed his lips across Anduin’s temple. The shadow of the overhang above them obscured the way Anduin arched his body into the touch, and Saurfang was gone again in seconds, but the heat of him remained. It felt burned into Anduin’s skin like a brand.

Genn paced and muttered curses on the walkway above them, but Anduin took great effort to avoid meeting his eyes as he stepped back into the center of the yard.

“You’re tiring,” Saurfang declared smugly. “Perhaps we should end this before you embarrass yourself.”

Anduin knew better than to fall for such seemingly insignificant banter. “I’m certain I have stamina enough to match you, Lord Saurfang,” he shot back. He earned a bit of surprise for his effort, and a look that promised his boast would be put to the test later.

He was looking forward to it.

Oblivious to the other sort of dance taking place before them, the soldiers had not ceased their excited shouting, but the sound was now muted to Anduin, lost in the pounding rain and the heavy sound of Saurfang’s breathing. He lifted his sword and moved in to strike, and the crossguard caught the notch below the head of the axe. When Saurfang swung to deflect the attack it threw Anduin past him, and he nearly went stumbling into the darkness. It was the large hand on his waist that stopped him, and suddenly he found himself pulled back against that same solid wall of muscle that he had met so many times before. Still doubled over, Anduin was keenly aware which parts of himself and Saurfang were pressed together in those few seconds. He laughed, and felt the hand on his waist squeeze affectionately.

“That’s enough!” Genn shouted down into the yard. The cheering stopped, and the soldiers—seemingly unaware that anything untoward had occurred—grew quiet at his command. All eyes turned to him, and he appeared to falter for just a moment. “I believe this... _exercise_ has run its course,” he said. “Your attentions are needed elsewhere, my king.”

Despite the mud that covered him from head to toe, Anduin stood tall and did his best to appear as the king he was, rather than a child who had been chastised for behaving inappropriately. He could have ignored it—Saurfang would almost certainly continue if offered the opportunity, and Genn could do nothing to stop them. But his refusal would only serve to drive the wedge between the two men that much deeper. After what had just occurred, it seemed wisest not to push Genn further than he already had that day.

“Genn’s right,” Anduin said lightly, making it seem as though the decision had been his, and his alone. He took a moment to acknowledge the men and give thanks for their support, and then he turned back to Saurfang. “Thank you, Lord Saurfang. It certainly was an invigorating experience.” He paused and offered a look he hoped Genn might not see. “I look forward to our _next_ encounter.”

Saurfang grinned back at him and mocked a bow, and with only a mild glare in Genn’s direction—considerable progress, in their case—he turned and left the yard. On Genn’s orders the spectators began to make their way down from the walkway as well, returning to their duties. Soon only the two of them remained. Genn himself hadn’t moved, and his face was locked in a deep, shadowy grimace. Anduin expected a rebuke. He expected another warning, or more promises of concern for his safety. But Genn only stared down at him, his hair flattened to his head by the rain, the rest of him no doubt soaked to the bone despite his heavy coat. He said nothing.

In the end _nothing_ may have said a great deal more.

 

* * *

 

 

Anduin appeared in the doorway not long after Saurfang had finally slogged his way up to his own chambers. He glanced at Saurfang’s bed—still broken—and snorted. His clothing hung from his slender body in heavy, damp sheets, and his hair was caked with grime. Despite that he appeared to be in much better spirits than he had been in the armory.

“You know, you’re going to owe me a rematch,” he said.

Saurfang only huffed a quiet laugh and shook his head. He was busy considering how best to rid himself of the mud that had already hardened over every inch of him; for once, the next fight was furthest thing from his mind.

It quickly became clear that the same was true of Anduin, however. In a few short steps he was standing before Saurfang, gazing up at him openly, warm and bright and so obviously eager for something more than another test of might. “I think perhaps we could both use a good scrubbing,” he suggested, coming closer still. He reached up and hooked his fingers under the straps that crossed Saurfang shoulder-to-shoulder, knuckles gliding over his chest as he idly rubbed the old leather. “I have a rather sizeable bath in my chambers, actually.”

How such a light touch could be so intoxicating was a mystery to Saurfang, and he bit back on a possessive growl as he surveyed what was being offered. Anduin was biting his lip shyly, pressing in close and putting every practiced harlot on Azeroth to shame as he gazed up from beneath his lashes. The smile in his darkened eyes was full of promise. Even covered in filth he was magnificent, and the more overt his desire became, the more Saurfang wanted him.

“And what if I prefer you this way?” Saurfang teased, letting the words linger between them. He wrapped his arms around Anduin’s slight shoulders and allowed himself to bask in the boy’s warmth. It was in his touch, in his spirit, and Saurfang hungered for it so deeply he would not dare admit it. His hands traveled freely, touching, massaging, reacquainting him with the soft places and occasional hard angles of Anduin’s body. He had only just bent his head to mouth at the pale arc of Anduin’s neck when there came a knock at the door.

Anduin cursed as he withdrew, and he quickly disappeared into an adjacent room. Saurfang straightened up and took a moment to collect himself before he called for his unexpected visitor to enter.

The page at his door was scrawny and trembling, and looked as though he expected this assignment to be his last. He took several breaths before he said, “Lord Saurfang, y—your presence is requested by King Greymane, sir. He has asked that you meet with him in the armory.”

Instinct and a heady amount of lust told Saurfang to chase off the intrusion; his blood was pounding hard in his veins, and he could almost _feel_ the ghost of Anduin’s body in his arms. But he would quickly find himself holding no more than that if he acted rashly on his desires; the benevolent king that he was, Anduin did not take kindly to Saurfang terrifying his subjects. Pity.

“I will meet with him when I have—” He struggled for an excuse. “Bathed,” he finished. “Tell Greymane that—”

“Pardon, sir,” the page interrupted, wincing, “but he’s said it’s urgent. You must not delay.”

A glance at the doorway to the other room showed no more than the very edge of a shadow. Apparently the king saw no shame in hiding, even within his own keep. Saurfang sighed. “Very well,” he said, “you may tell him I will be there shortly.”

Having dispatched his duty, the page disappeared with a pounding of flat feet on stone, leaving the door open in his haste to retreat to safety. Saurfang stomped over and shut it again. He heard Anduin clear his throat from behind him.

“You are aware that you will have to actually _go,_ ” he said.

“I could delay.”

When he turned, Anduin was shaking his head, smiling down at the floor as he crossed his arms over his chest. “I would not tempt fate with Genn tonight, Varok. Not after what happened in the training yard.” He stepped closer and looked up, the smile still playing at the corners of his mouth. “Besides, it would give me time to prepare that bath. Assuming you are still interested in joining me, that is…”

Saurfang hummed his approval deep in his throat. He gently lifted Anduin’s chin with his fingertips, pleased by the way his pink lips parted and his eyes fluttered shut. “If you would like, I could prove my interest now,” he said.

He could see the immediate reaction from Anduin in the flush of his skin, and feel the shiver that gripped him, but it lasted only a moment; Anduin broke free from the brief trance with a shake. “Go,” he commanded, making a show of pushing Saurfang back. “Before Genn’s patience runs out and he comes looking for you.”

“He would not like what he found.”

Anduin laughed. “Which is precisely why you should go.”

 

* * *

 

 

As Anduin made his way up the keep to his own chambers, he idly reflected that the report he had received from Shaw—a dangerous buildup of enemy troops, numbers far too great to ignore—now seemed so much more distant and manageable. When he had first heard the news it felt as though the very words were squeezing him, cutting off his air and crowding him into a corner. He had been consumed by visions of failure. Now he understood what Saurfang had done for him by dragging him out into that yard, and why. And while it had by no means lessened the weight of his burdens, it had brought him unexpected relief from the terrible fear that accompanied them. It was almost strange, in a way, that a critical component of what he needed to face the Horde had come from the very heart of the Horde itself. Fate certainly had no qualms with irony.

Anduin reached the door, dismissing a guard who had taken up post outside. He had given instructions to keep the corridor clear, for reasons obvious only to himself, Genn, and perhaps Mathias Shaw, but the order seemed to have become lost somewhere along the way.

The guard hurried off, and Anduin smiled to himself. He could not complain that his men were concerned for his safety. It was true that the interior of the keep was the most secure, but they would still protect their king at all costs. He felt humbled by their loyalty, and more determined than ever to see to it that he did not fail them.

He _would not_ fail them.

Alone at last in the anteroom of his chambers, Anduin heaved a great sigh. His body ached; the last time he could remember being so sore was after Lordaeron. That had also been Saurfang’s doing, but it had been a great deal less enjoyable then.

He began divesting himself of his belt and boots, anxious to slip into the warm water and await Saurfang’s return from whatever business Genn had deemed so urgent it could not wait. More warnings, perhaps—veiled and not-so-veiled threats, more likely. Nothing out of the ordinary since Genn’s accidental discovery of their affair. Anduin kicked aside his boots and started on the ties of his cuffs. So long as their meeting did not deteriorate into another attempted battle to the death, he would not intervene. He was confident Genn understood his feelings on the matter, anyhow, and Saurfang—

He stopped, fingertips frozen over the leather cord. “How did you get in here?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple of notes before we start:
> 
> * In the same way that the game condenses the world for players, I've written Azeroth a little smaller than what it would be in reality. Not to the same extent as the game. It's just that you would be waiting a lot longer for this story if I wrote it all true to size. (Although I'm reading the novels now and apparently they don't take great pains to stretch out the distances either.)
> * Maybe a month and a half to two months is supposed to have passed between the night Anduin visited the Stockade and the start of this story. It will be the last time more than a week or two is skipped until the end of the series as I've planned it.

Saurfang stood beside the empty bench, idly looking over the table that still held the damaged pieces of Anduin’s armor. A gauntlet was missing, but none of the more obvious damage had yet been repaired, and the gouge in the breastplate remained. A livid black scar marring the shining silver and gold.

Around him the armory was almost entirely silent. The rumble and hiss of the smoldering forges would continue throughout the night, awaiting the return of the blacksmiths in the morning, yet absent the ringing of hammers it was eerily still. He had expected Greymane would be waiting when he arrived, but it had easily been twenty or thirty minutes without any sign of the old wolf. Saurfang was beginning to suspect he had been lured down to the empty armory as a means of keeping him away from Anduin. It would not be the first time Greymane had resorted to such underhanded tactics to get his way.

Several more minutes passed before Saurfang decided he’d finally had enough of waiting. He stood up, pushing the bench back, and stormed from the armory, up the stairs and into the castle proper. There were few servants scurrying about at such a late hour, and all the better for them; Saurfang was in no mood to pretend as though he hadn’t seen some fearful drudge duck into an alcove to avoid him. When he reached the inner keep he took the stairs at a furious clip, only stopping when he had finally reached Anduin’s door. Whatever desire he had felt before was long faded. Informing the boy that he intended to kill Greymane was only a courtesy.

He knocked—it had taken weeks for him to grow accustomed to knocking on _every single door_ —and waited.

No answer came from within. Saurfang stood and listened for the sound of bare feet on stone, or perhaps some indication that Anduin had given up and gone to sleep, but there was none. He knocked again.

Given that the boy had stolen into his chambers more than once in the middle of the night, Saurfang had few qualms about breaching the sanctity of the royal quarters. He pushed open the door and found the first room empty. Anduin’s boots, only identifiable by their shape beneath the dried shell of mud, lay discarded by the far wall. His belt was draped across a small table. It, too, was filthy, but the gold buckle appeared no worse for wear, even if the leather looked as though it had seen better days.

To the right was the bedroom, and beyond it, the bath. Anduin was in neither. There was a strange smell in the room that—

“What do you think you’re you doing in here?” came Greymane’s haughty and demanding drawl behind him.

Saurfang turned around. His lip curled, and his fists tightened at his sides. “Keep to your own business, dog,” he warned.

“The king’s safety _is_ my business, _orc_.”

“Haven’t you had your fill of schemes today?” Saurfang asked. “Did you wish to come and stand between us as well?”

Greymane scoffed. He had a nasty gleam in his eye, and he bared his teeth as he said, “I suppose that’s why you thought to distract me, is it? Summoning me to wait for you like a fool?”

Saurfang drew back sharply. “What did you say?”

“You heard me, savage!” Greymane snapped, “If you believe that these games will work to—”

“Who told you I wanted to speak with you?”

The fight bled from the old king quickly. A curious look passed over his features, and he cocked his head to the side as his posture straightened and his shoulders relaxed. “A page,” he said, and it almost sounded like a question. “Bearing a message from you, claiming you had urgent information that could not wait.”

Saurfang shook his head. “I sent no such message.” Something was wrong. Two messages, one for himself, the other for Greymane; both urgent summons to meetings that were clearly never intended to occur. There _was_ a scheme brewing, it seemed, it simply wasn’t Greymane’s doing. “Where is the king?” he asked.

Greymane’s eyes narrowed, and he glanced around the empty room before turning his head to peer up at Saurfang with a dangerous glare. “What do you mean, _‘where is the king?’_ ”

 

 

“Spymaster Shaw has been making discreet inquiries amongst the servants, but apparently none can recall seeing the king after he returned to the keep.” Greymane cursed and slammed the side of his fist down on the tabletop. It rattled the plotters closest to him, and toppled a small replica of a Kul Tiran ship. He looked up and narrowed his eyes at Saurfang across the map. “I still find it suspicious that you were the last to see him, and you were also in his room when he was discovered missing.”

Rather than denying Greymane’s thinly veiled accusations yet again, or pointing out that _he_ was the one who had first realized the king was gone, Saurfang only growled something unpleasant under his breath and returned to his thoughts. He could not rightfully search the keep himself, and he could not hope to question its inhabitants without stirring a panic, but he was determined to do something. He had known of the nearest Horde encampments as of his own capture, as well as likely routes that the abductors might take to reach them, but none of that knowledge would serve any good if Sylvanas had anticipated his betrayal and relocated her forces. He had seen far too much to fool himself into believing she would be so naive.

“Perhaps we should return you to the Stockade,” Greymane continued, speaking over his silent contemplation of the map. “Lest you or someone _else_ turn up missing.”

Saurfang looked up with a growl. “If you cannot do anything more useful than—”

“Just where _were_ you when he disappeared, Lord Saurfang? You say you were in the armory, but I had Shaw look into that as well, and it seems no one can remember seeing you there.”

The vitriol was endless. It was becoming increasingly difficult not to kill him on the spot. Saurfang fought to withhold his fury, at least for Anduin’s sake. Challenging the old wolf now would only delay the search, and might cost far more than Saurfang’s freedom. Still, it ground against his very nature, wearing away at him until he was nothing but a raw nerve. Finally he could take no more. On the heels of a muttered curse, he roared, “We are wasting time!” and threw aside a host of carefully laid plotters. “Do you truly wish to bring him back, or are you merely interested in finding excuses to throw me in another cell?”

“I could easily do both!”

“Then do it, and save me the trouble of listening to you snarl!” Saurfang balled his fists to keep from striking out at something else, perhaps something that could fight back. His chest was heaving with the effort of keeping calm. It had been many years since mere words had driven him to such anger, and he was not so simple that he didn’t understand why it was Greymane who had done it.

“Exactly what is it that you hope to accomplish with this bluster?” Greymane asked, and the disdain in his voice was nearly a physical presence between them. “SI:7 is already looking for him. Do you think perhaps if you shout enough it might bring Anduin back? Or is it something else? Are you really so misguided that you believe this profane affair of yours might have been sufficient to stave off whatever mood he’s found himself in this time?”

Outside of his theory that Saurfang himself had orchestrated some sort of abduction, Greymane seemed to believe it was likely that Anduin had simply left of his own volition. Apparently it had happened before, not long after the boy’s father had fallen in battle. That sort of self-doubt he could understand, and despite the boasts of history it had happened to many great warriors at one time or another. But there was no reason for it now, no indication that Anduin wished to go…

Apart, perhaps, from his earlier melancholy. Saurfang cursed himself in his own head. In his eagerness to believe the best of his young king, had he become blinded to reality? Anduin had even insisted that he should hurry to meet Greymane, despite a rather compelling reason not to. And Saurfang had dutifully gone, leaving him to attend a meeting that never was, orchestrated by an unknown hand. What if it had been the king’s orders at work all along? The more he thought back on the events of the day, the more he wondered if the old wolf wasn’t right after all. Perhaps Anduin had simply left.

No. Saurfang shook his head. A child might run, but a man would stay and continue the fight, and Anduin had shown himself to be a man of high principle in that regard. Saurfang would not accept that he was capable of such cowardice. Not after their encounter in the Stockade—nor a single moment that had followed. A king who could face his enemy unarmed, unafraid, was not a king who would slip away in the night. “And what are _you_ doing to find him?” he asked of Greymane in return. “Perhaps you should put that flea-bitten muzzle of yours to better use than snapping at me, and see if you can sniff him out.”

“I would be hard-pressed to smell anything but your foul stench, _savage_.”

“If you could smell—” Saurfang froze. The _smell_. Without a word, he turned and marched from the war room, out into the corridor and straight to the winding stairs that would take him up to Anduin’s chambers. He could only just recall the familiar scent he had taken note of before, when Greymane first interrupted with his snarling accusations.

The wolf was on his heels when he pushed open the door, and he nearly collided with Saurfang’s back as he growled some complaint about presumption and respect. Saurfang ignored him. He took a deep breath through his nose and closed his eyes. He knew that scent. It first evoked a sense of dread; a familiar and empty pit deep within in his gut. It was a feeling he had tried to forget as he languished in his cell, left with no more than his bitter memories as company. “Ash,” he breathed. The acrid ashes of a burning World Tree. He had lived his life surrounded by death, well accustomed to the stink of corpses and the metallic tang of spilled blood, but he would go to his death cringing at the smell of that damned tree.

But something else lingered in the subtle scent that filled the room. A different sort of smell, earthy and sharp, it clung to his nostrils. He breathed deeply and confirmed his own suspicions: _salt_. The pit in his stomach suddenly felt as though it had widened into a great, yawning gulf. “Darkshore.”

He had nearly forgotten that Greymane was there, still skulking behind him. “What is that supposed to mean?” the old king demanded. “What about Darkshore?”

As an answer, Saurfang stepped aside, letting Greymane into the room ahead of him. He let the old man sniff at the air, knowing he would soon understand exactly what Saurfang himself now did—that Anduin wasn’t simply _missing_. He had not gone on his own, and he had not been alone in the room before he disappeared. Salt and the ashes of Teldrassil could only mean Darkshore.

Darkshore meant the Horde.

Even in the more unassuming guise of a human, Greymane’s eyes turned cold and distant as he took in the undeniable truth of the matter, written in the very air like a note to their senses. He turned on his heel, his face a grim mask of lines, wrought tight from fear. “ _No one_ can know of this,” he whispered gravely. “Morale among the troops right now is… It could very well mean the end of the Alliance if word spreads that he is gone.” He cast a contemptuous look up at Saurfang and sneered. “Come,” he ordered. “If you are as eager to retrieve the king as you claim, we have a great deal of work to do.”

 

 

“They can’t have made it far,” Greymane insisted. He was pacing the war room like a caged animal, and it seemed to Saurfang that he was on the verge of giving in to his own savage nature and barreling out into the wilds to hunt down Anduin’s captors himself. “We have patrols stationed along every road, guarding every pass from here to the jungles of Stranglethorn. All we need is to determine which route they took. We’ll overtake them easily.”

“You believe they risked transporting him through the city on foot, rather than use magic?” Saurfang asked. The thought was grim, given the reach an arcane portal would offer, but denying the reality of the situation would not serve to improve it. Truly overpowering Anduin was no easy task, he knew that much already. Anyone who could do so would undoubtedly have the sense to make haste. A mage’s arcane magic would suffice to that end.

But Greymane only shook his head at the suggestion. “It isn’t possible,” he explained. “Archmage Khadgar took great pains to safeguard Stormwind against enemy incursion during the war with the Legion. It would take a mage of considerable skill to bypass his wards, and I’m certain SI:7 would know of any such person if they existed.” He paused to narrow his eyes at Saurfang. “I imagine he felt obliged to do the same for the Horde, come to think of it.”

That had been a very different time, and personal disputes had been a luxury few could afford to indulge. Although Saurfang understood from tales of the events in Stormheim that Greymane had seen to it _his_ personal disputes were an exception. “We’re losing sight of the problem,” he said, rather than answering the unspoken question—more of an accusation, really. “You say he cannot have been taken by any other means, but the guards at the gate—”

“The city guards have all been thoroughly questioned by Master Shaw and his people. They could recall nothing unusual, and certainly sighted no Horde spies skulking about—apart from you, perhaps. And before you ask, there have been no unaccounted for ships in or around the harbor, either. Unsurprising, since I doubt an enemy so clever would make the mistake of leaving a record of their departure with the dockmaster.” His seemingly permanent scowl deepened. “A smaller craft might have slipped past our patrols undetected, but they couldn’t possibly hope to make the crossing to Kalimdor that way.”

And that was where they were taking their prize, there was no doubt in either of their minds about that much. But something wasn’t right; the dismissal of Anduin’s abductors possibly traveling by ship was troubling him. Regardless of their ultimate destination, Greymane was right about one thing: they would have to secure passage to Kalimdor at some point. Even a single Horde ship off the shores of the Eastern Kingdoms would raise alarm, but what if they had found another way? A means of travel that neither the Horde nor the Alliance would bother to question?

“The goblins in Stranglethorn operate a passenger service to Kalimdor,” he said almost absently. He certainly didn’t expect Greymane to pick up on the thought and carry it to its natural conclusion on his own.

“You think they spirited Anduin from the city through the harbor, and down to the cape, don’t you?” he asked. With a muttered curse he said, “Like so much _cargo_.”

It seemed the most likely means of making a quick escape. Saurfang himself knew the Horde had already infiltrated Stormwind once, and that they could certainly do it again. In fact, their success the first time may have only emboldened them. If a small team could slip through the clenched fist of the 7th Legion with two high-profile prisoners, they might be capable of anything. He met Greymane’s stare. “It would be easy enough, and leave no trace of their path in or out of the city.”

“Not to mention making our efforts to follow them significantly more difficult.” Greymane breathed out a great sigh. “If that is the case then we’ve lost precious time already. I’ll summon Shaw back to the keep.”

Saurfang nodded. “We should leave immediately. There is no telling how swiftly his captors could—”

“ _We_ are going nowhere,” Greymane interrupted. “I will take a detachment of SI:7 and 7th Legion soldiers and retrieve the king myself. You will remain here, in the keep, under _heavy_ guard.” With a smirk, he added, “Consider yourself fortunate I’ve elected not to have you thrown back in the Stockade, instead. A small token of appreciation for your assistance.”

“You intend to sail for Kalimdor?” Saurfang asked. He ignored the old wolf’s snide dismissal and crossed his arms, content to await the inevitable end of their bickering.

“Well, we can’t very well walk there, can we.”

Saurfang let the question stand. He kept an impassive eye on Greymane, and watched the man tackle a series of emotions, working his way through each one until he finally arrived at the cold truth of the matter. “Why?” he asked warily, though it was clear he already knew, or at least suspected the answer.

“The Horde controls much of the coast,” Saurfang reminded him. “And Sylvanas remembers well the lessons she learned during the rebellion against Hellscream. The waters of Kalimdor are theirs, more so now that they’ve added the Zandalari to their ranks. Where do you propose to make landfall?”

Greymane shrugged it off easily; his eyes wandered the war room and he sniffed as he said, “If need be we’ll sail to the remains of Theramore. We can cross Dustwallow and make our way into the Barrens from there.”

“And how do you intend to reach Durotar before they have crossed the gates of Orgrimmar?”

“Stop trying to undermine my efforts to rescue Anduin!”

“I am trying to tell you that your plans amount to little better than suicide. Crossing the Barrens will be difficult enough, attempting to do so with a full detachment is absurd. You would almost certainly be spotted by the Horde scouts before you had made it halfway across the plains, assuming you make it that far at all. You may as well sail your ships into Durotar and submit yourselves to Sylvanas on bended knee.”

Greymane’s glare had turned vicious, and the gold in his eyes flashed dangerously. Mentions of Sylvanas never sat well with the old king, but the mere suggestion of submitting to her malevolent will seemed to draw out the worst of his temper. “And just what do you propose we do instead, Lord Saurfang? Book passage on the damned goblin barge?”

Saurfang only stared at him, impassive, and prepared to remain that way until Greymane clawed his way to some common sense.

After a moment it appeared his efforts had paid off. “No,” Greymane said firmly.

“Alone we could cross the Barrens in a little over a day. As we speak we are only one or two hours behind at most. If you want to rescue the king, this is the swiftest way to do it.” He shook his head. “No, this is the _only_ way to do it.”

“You would be hard pressed to convince me that allowing you out of this keep is a wise choice under the _best_ of circumstances,” Greymane scoffed. “I am certainly not going to trust you with my life.”

“It isn’t your life at stake,” Saurfang reminded him. “And your _trust_ means nothing to me.” He gestured to the map, and the remaining plotters that indicated the many Horde warships dotting the coastal reaches of Kalimdor. “But it may mean everything to the king. So, what will it be, old wolf? Side-by-side, or on your knees?”

 

  
“I don’t like this.”

“Your comfort is irrelevant. Keep your head down—and stop glaring at every orc and goblin that crosses your path!” Saurfang growled angrily. “You’re trying to blend in, not start a brawl.”

Greymane sniffed disdainfully. “Hardly think it would take much to incite this rabble to violence.”

“All the more reason to keep your eyes down and your mouth shut.”

The passenger ship was tied at the end of the dock, her sails raised high and crew scurrying about the deck. A narrow stretch of pier lay between them and the ship, patched unevenly in several places, left to languish and rot in others. The stink of fish wafted from the nets of nearby traders hawking their meager pull from the day’s trade, and it clung like molasses in the thick jungle air. Flies swarmed in the building heat, making it hard to focus on the short path before them. It was an endless assault on the senses and Saurfang was rapidly approaching the limit of his patience. Greymane’s incessant muttering at his side was no help in that regard, either.

They had reached the goblin port that morning, barely beating the sunrise by minutes, and more than ready to be rid of one another for at least the time it would take to cross the Great Sea. Saurfang himself had elected to forego wearing any armor, deciding it would draw too much attention to him in the crowded port. Instead, he wore only a short cowl over his leather tunic, and removed all adornments from his belt and boots in order to help conceal his identity. A small axe hung at his belt, plain and unassuming, and easily mistaken for a mere tool.

Greymane, on the other hand, had simply thrown a cloak over his back, pulled his hood down to shadow his face, and left it at that.

That had been several hours and many miles behind them, and as they made their way down the pier to the ship, Saurfang was certain he saw the old wolf pull his cloak a little tighter. “Give them no reason to suspect you of any wrongdoing, and they won’t bother to look at your face,” he said quietly.

“It isn’t _my_ face I’m worried about,” Greymane muttered almost the same moment Saurfang caught a curious glance from a passing elf.

Instinct and common sense told him to keep walking. To keep his eyes down and simply make for the ship, as he had repeatedly told Greymane to do. Instead, he turned, caught the elf’s fel-tainted eyes, and saw them widen in recognition. “Get on the boat,” he ordered. “Quickly.”

“ _What have you done?_ ” Greymane hissed.

Saurfang grabbed him by the upper arm and hauled him down to the end of the pier, where the ship was already pulling up anchor. They made it stumbling onto the deck, but their flight didn’t stop there. He only released Greymane when they were safely below, out of sight and tucked away in the shadows of the ship’s wide belly.

Greymane made a sour face and said, “Care to explain yourself?” He was shaking out his rumpled coat beneath the cloak, like some sort of great black bird. “You seemed to be such an expert on stealth when you were telling me how to conduct myself to avoid scrutiny. Yet here we are—”

“Be quiet,” Saurfang grunted. He was watching the steps, looking for any sign that they had been followed.

“I knew it was a mistake to bring you,” came yet another whispered complaint beside him. “You only jeopardize this mission with your presence. Look at you,” Greymane sneered. “As though hiding yourself beneath that hood would conceal your identity. You might as well have lit a flare for the Horde to follow.”

Saurfang tried to ignore him. He started searching the hold, ensuring they were alone. The gentle roll of the deck beneath his feet indicated that they were underway, but he knew that did not necessarily mean they were out of danger.

“Perhaps that was your plan all along,” the old wolf continued bitterly. “Lure me to Kalimdor, away from Stormwind, leaving the city without anyone to command the armies of the Alliance.”

Through the salt-stained glass of the porthole Saurfang could see the shore as it disappeared beyond the horizon. The sun was high, and the sea calm. They would make good time if they didn’t encounter any resistance on the water. He had never heard of a Steamwheedle ship coming under fire from the Horde, but with Sylvanas in command…

Greymane had grown unusually quiet, and Saurfang took the rare opportunity to bask in the silence he had not been afforded since leaving Stormwind. He folded his arms and leaned against the rough curve of the inner hull, letting himself become lost in the rhythm of the waves.

It was difficult not to blame himself for Anduin’s abduction. Even more so to believe that Anduin had been taken at all; the boy was quick, clever, and surrounded by loyal soldiers who would gladly die for him. Had they truly managed to snatch the king away so easily, or merely killed him on the spot? He was forced to admit that he could no longer predict the Horde’s methods; they followed the Banshee Queen, and she followed her own capricious whims. Some days those whims were darker than others. The thought of Sylvanas ordering her Val’kyr to raise the boy into mindless servitude was enough to momentarily steal the breath from his lungs, but he forced himself to remain calm. They were only hours behind, if that. Anduin’s abductors would be traveling encumbered. If they avoided any further encounters with curious Horde soldiers, it was likely he and Greymane would overtake their quarry well before they were within sight of the gates of Orgrimmar.

“We’ll need to obtain transportation in Ratchet,” he said, expecting yet another argument. When Greymane had nothing to say Saurfang turned around. He found the old wolf sitting on a crate, head resting on his arm, fast asleep.

No, not asleep— _unconscious_.

“No interruptions,” a smooth voice spoke up from the shadows. “And no witnesses.” The blood elf from before revealed himself as he seemed to resolve into being from the darkness around them. He glanced at Greymane’s slumped form and shrugged. “No fun, either. I suppose I’ll have to dispose of him before we reach our destination. Terribly boorish of me to present the Dark Lady with no more than a mere strip of bloody pelt, but just imagine the scavengers I would attract dragging a dead dog all the way to Orgrimmar. It simply isn’t practical.”

Saurfang let his gaze drop to the small axe at his own hip. The elf’s green eyes followed. “I hope you don’t think you’re going to use that on me,” he said, clearly offended by the idea. “Not that I wish to discourage you from trying, of course.”

What a pompous fool. Saurfang did reach for his weapon, but not to brandish it against the would-be assassin. Instead, he held it out, away from his body, and let it drop to the deck with a clatter.

The elf smirked. “Bold.”

“Certain,” was all Saurfang said in reply.

The elf flashed a wicked smile before he lunged, throwing himself into the ring of light cast by the porthole with two daggers raised to his chest. The glare from the sun caught the blades and flashed bright in Saurfang’s eyes, disorienting him long enough for the elf to move in and strike. He felt the heat of a clean slice along his flank, and looked down to see blood already staining his leather tunic.

“Are we a little less certain now?” the elf mocked. He danced around between the light and the shadow, moving too quickly to track in the small space. It was infuriating—and effective. He made another shallow cut as he dashed past. Saurfang bit back on a roar of pain. There was something on the daggers, and it burned like tendrils of fire creeping under his skin. “You could always surrender,” came the sing-song suggestion from behind his back. “I would enjoy telling _that_ story at the tavern.”

A lightning quick lunge, the hiss of steel cutting flesh, and Saurfang felt the poison begin to work as it seeped into the new wound blossoming on his upper arm. He turned and swung out, hoping to catch the rogue as he moved to attack a fourth time, but his hands only met air.

He was rewarded with a laugh that filled the already crowded hold. “Don’t feel ashamed, close quarters are something of a speciality of mine,” the elf boasted. “The poison on the blades, however, is just a little added _kick_. It’s not strong enough to kill you with a single dose—” he swept in from behind and left a vertical slash on Saurfang’s shoulder blade, “—but enough of it will put you down, and you _won’t_ be getting back up.”

He growled at the retreating form of the elf as he appeared for only a second, before dashing out of the way again with a vicious grin and a flash of his blades. Somehow everywhere at once, and nowhere that Saurfang could reach. He could feel the effects of the poison as it burned its way through his blood, slowing him little by little, making his limbs feel heavy and dulling his senses. If the elf was telling the truth it wouldn’t be long before he was on his knees, unable to fend off even the most direct attack. The thought of being so humiliated in his final moments was enough to keep him going, but it would not sustain him. The elf was too quick, too sure of his own footing, with the skill to back it up. Saurfang himself was stronger by far, but he did not possess even a fraction of the rogue’s speed.

What he did have was a small space, and a _very_ arrogant opponent.

He went down on one knee, clutching his side and groaning. Seeing his condition, the elf laughed again, and from the shadows he moved in for the kill. “I’ll only need another two or three cuts to take you down,” he said. His left foot extended as he stepped into the light of the porthole, and Saurfang struck: he seized the elf by the ankle and pulled, throwing him onto his back and making him yelp in surprise. One of the poisoned daggers hit the deck of the hold and Saurfang dashed for it as the rogue scrambled to his feet. There was a brief silence, a flurry of movement, and then Saurfang was upon him, his wide hand dwarfing the elf’s slender throat. Soft boots kicked uselessly at the air, and the sound that gurgled from his open mouth might have been a plea for mercy. It was impossible to tell.

“I only need _one_ ,” Saurfang growled, before thrusting the knife up into the elf’s ribs, pushing through leather and flesh and past the cage of bone, until he could feel the blood running down his arm.

When it was over he dropped the lifeless body onto the deck. There was blood on his tunic, on the leather around his wrists and forearms, dripping from the dagger, and pooling on the wood beneath his feet. The smell of it was thick in the air. Saurfang let the weapon in his hand fall beside its former owner, and then reached down slowly to pick up its mate. The hold swayed around him, and he was certain it had little to do with the pitch and roll of the ship.

Greymane still lay unconscious, draped over a stack of crates on the other side of the hold. It took a great deal more concentration than Saurfang expected to push back the cuff of Greymane’s jacket, but finally he exposed a bit of flesh. He set the very tip of the dagger to the back of the old king’s wrist and made a small, shallow cut. In seconds Greymane was up on his feet, snarling at the specter of his imagined attacker and halfway to transforming. When he caught sight of Saurfang and the crumpled form of the blood elf on the floor, he drew back, and then surged forward to catch Saurfang before he could fall. His now-human face was twisted in anger and his eyes were wide with shock.

“You’re bleeding!” he exclaimed, holding Saurfang up with both arms. “What happened?”

Saurfang half-turned to him and growled, “You let your guard down.”

And then he fell.

 

 

“Wake up, you great beast,” Greymane said. He toed at Saurfang’s rib with the tip of his boot. For the first few seconds that he was aware of anything apart from the backs of his own eyelids, Saurfang was filled with a powerful urge to rip off every single one of the old king’s toes. Slowly.

“We’ll be arriving shortly. You’ve managed to sleep through the whole voyage. And,” Greymane added indignantly, “left me to clean up _your_ mess.”

“Where is the elf?” Saurfang managed to ask. His mouth felt like it had been filled with sand.

“Slowly floating toward the Maelstrom, I’d imagine. Can you stand?”

The question was not whether he could stand, but rather if he wanted to try. His head was pounding like the drums of war. He wiped a hand over his face. “How long?”

“How long were you unconscious, or how long until we make port in Ratchet?”

“Port.”

“Perhaps ten or fifteen minutes,” Greymane answered. “They’ve been bustling about up there, I can’t imagine it will be much longer. Are you going to stand up or not?”

Saurfang only growled at him. He rolled onto his side and pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, remaining there for just a moment before he made the effort to stand. The fire beneath his skin was gone, and he found it easier to think, but it still seemed as though the hold swayed uneasily around him. Shaking his head did nothing to clear his vision.

“That would be the ship,” Greymane chuckled. “It seems the weather is not quite so pleasant here on the shores of _beautiful_ Kalimdor.” He made a gesture to Saurfang to raise his hood, and then pulled his own down over the top of his face. “Let’s go.”

Disembarking the ship proved far less dramatic than boarding it had. No one paid them any mind, and the few passengers coming and going past them on the dock seemed far more interested in their own business. Soon they found themselves all but alone, standing on the outskirts of the small goblin port town of Ratchet. It was by no means impressive, but a far sight better than where they had come from.

Saurfang took a moment to steady himself upon reaching land. He turned to Greymane. “Wait for me here,” he instructed. When Greymane only raised an eyebrow he added, “Would it truly bother you if I were to be killed while we’re apart?”

The old wolf seemed to consider that for a moment. He made a great show of pretending to hide a smile. “I will wait for you here,” he said far too pleasantly.

Saurfang huffed a wry laugh under his breath and made for the back end of the closest building. They were little more than shacks; unsteady and poorly tended, and barely better than a windbreak in some places. The sun above was burning bright and already close to midday. They would have to hurry to make Durotar by nightfall. Remaining focused, intent on their target, was key. If he allowed himself to be distracted by thoughts of what he stood to lose…

“Hey, fella, you need some help?” a small voice asked.

He looked down. A young goblin stood before him, gloved hands on his hips. There were grease stains smeared across his face and clothing. A wrench nearly half his size was shoved into the back of his overalls. “I don’t think you belong back here, big guy,” the goblin said.

They had already endured enough delays. Saurfang drew himself up to his full height and looked down on the wretched little thing before him. “ _Run away,_ ” he said in his deepest, meanest growl.

Perhaps the only redeeming quality of goblins was their overdeveloped sense of self preservation.

He found what he had been searching for easily enough after that, and with his plunder in tow he headed back to where he had deposited Greymane by the dock. His approach was met with what might have been the deepest scowl yet. “Did you steal those?” Greymane asked, indicating the two direwolves following obediently—if a bit nervously—behind Saurfang. They were mangy beasts, remarkably like his traveling companion in both temperament and smell.

“And what if I did?” Saurfang challenged. “Would you prefer to make the journey on foot?” He laughed to himself, gesturing at Greymane’s feet. “Or on all fours?”

Greymane flattened his mouth into a thin line and stalked forward to snatch one set of reins from Saurfang’s hand. “I hadn’t known I was in the company of a _thieving_ barbarian,” he muttered crossly. He began unloading the items that had been concealed under his cloak, stuffing them into the wolf’s saddlebags. “Did you want to pillage a bit while we’re here? Make it feel a little more like a true homecoming?”

Ignoring the attempt to bait him, Saurfang casually asked, “You have no personal objections to me riding a wolf, do you?”

Greymane cast a sidelong look his way. He continued tying the roll he’d made of his cloak to the side of the saddle. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that, Lord Saurfang,” he said when he was done. “You’ve hardly seemed to mind my objections regarding anything else you've ridden.”

The only road leading in or out of Ratchet was empty, but there was no telling who they might encounter along the way. Horde patrols were known to occasionally range well south of the Crossroads, and it would be impossible to evade detection on the flat plains. It was wisest, they had agreed, to keep to the coast. They followed the path of the Southfury River, intending to cross into Durotar before Far Watch Post. The pair had barely made it out of Ratchet when Greymane pulled his mount to a stop, causing the beast to snap viciously and attempt to shake him. Saurfang turned his own wolf around and drew the reins up tight.

“What is it?” he demanded.

Greymane was shaking his head, his chin aimed high and a distant look in his eyes. “This is wrong,” he said. “We’re going the wrong way.”

“I know the way to Durotar, we’re—”

“It isn’t _Durotar_ we’re trying to reach,” Greymane snapped, “it’s Anduin. And I am telling you that we will not find him if we continue in this direction.”

Saurfang’s wolf loped up alongside Greymane’s, and he looked down on the human with a contemptuous sneer. “And why should I trust your word on that, dog?”

“Because I can _smell him,_ ” Greymane said pointedly, staring up at Saurfang with equal contempt and defiance. “Rather, I can smell the potent combination of whatever filth comprised the ground of the training yard, his own scent, and _you_. Seems your vile stench has come in handy after all.” He sniffed again and made an unpleasant face. “Northwest.”

Saurfang’s first concern lay in whatever details the cur’s nose could provide. All else—even his dislike of Greymane—could wait. “How close?” he asked. His blood was hammering in his temples; he had not been so eager for battle in a very long time. “How quickly can we overtake them?”

Greymane shook his head. “I cannot tell,” he said. “The scent is weak, and fading quickly. It’s a miracle I picked up on it at all. If I had to guess, I would say we’re farther behind than we thought. Perhaps by several hours.”

Several hours northwest from their current position might put them on the road to Stonetalon, or it might take them further north, into Ashenvale. Neither prospect was as grim as the thought of Anduin’s captors reaching Orgrimmar with him, but nor did either bring him any comfort. The young king had too many enemies, too many with means who were eager for his blood. Stonetalon and the ancestral lands of the Grimtotem lay firmly in the hands of the Horde. The single narrow route through the region would put them on uneasy footing in an assault, with no hope to get ahead of their prey. And although Ashenvale was still largely in the hands of the night elves, that knowledge did little to assuage his worry; not far from those twilight forests lay Darkshore, and the might of an entire occupying army.

He brought his wolf around, coming up on Greymane’s side. “Then we follow your lead,” he said. “I hope for your sake that nose of yours is right.”

Greymane pulled the reins taut in his hand and turned his wolf northwest. “Not my sake, Lord Saurfang. The king’s.”

 

 

When the last of the light had gone, and the wash of purple and orange overhead had begun to fade into a deeper blue, Saurfang knew they could go no further.

“We have to stop,” he announced, coaxing his direwolf to a halt.

Greymane turned in his saddle. He had gone ahead some distance, and did not appear willing to double back. “We can’t simply stop,” he called out.

“It is dark, there are no stars—” Saurfang aimed a single finger up, pointing to the clouded sky overhead. “We will lose much more time if we become lost. I do not have a magical map to guide me across the plains, and by your own admission you haven’t picked up a scent in hours.” The last time he had, the direction seemed to indicate that Anduin and his captors were indeed headed north, into Ashenvale. A worrying prospect.

“That won’t improve if we make camp to wait for daylight!” Greymane argued. He finally turned around and came back, and as Saurfang dismounted he looked down on him with eyes that seemed far closer to gold than their normal steel blue. “Or perhaps you wish to stop so that your Horde compatriots can find us more easily. You would like that, wouldn’t you? To finally be rid of me so that you might whisper lies in Anduin’s ear without anyone to challenge you.”

“Do I strike you as a man who _whispers?_ ” Saurfang asked. “I am no scheming goblin. If I wished you gone, you would not be here.”

Greymane jumped down from his wolf and held his arms wide in challenge. “Then rid yourself of the inconvenience, Lord Saurfang. I wager I’ll give you a good fight!”

In the tense silence that followed a wolf howled somewhere in the distance, carried across the plain on the hot wind. Both men paused.

“Friends of yours?” Saurfang asked.

The old wolf choked on a haughty sound and boasted, “As though I would need assistance to take you down!” It was no trick of the shadows—his eyes were glowing. Not much, but enough to make clear his intentions.

Another howl broke through the night, and Saurfang held out his arm. “Do you wish to answer?”

His question only further incensed Greymane, who was halfway to throwing off his long overcoat. His transformation was swift and admittedly impressive once he was free, and he stood tall to make a show of his true size. “Enough stalling!” he shouted, the words menacing in his deep worgen timbre. “You may—”

The mournful call interrupted yet again, only this time it was immediately met with a fierce and powerful roar, tearing from Greymane’s throat like the combined fury of a dozen warriors charging headlong into battle. The whole of the Barrens fell silent; even the grass seemed wary of swaying in the night air. Their own direwolf mounts cowered in the tall grass at their feet.

Greymane brought his massive head back down and growled through his teeth. “Now, Lord Saurfang, you wished to end me, did you not? I welcome the challenge.”

But Saurfang was not intimidated by Greymane’s show of strength. On the contrary, he had fallen utterly silent, and his body shook with the effort it took to keep from letting his amusement show. It came out first as a snort, and then a quiet chuckle, and then his resolve failed rather spectacularly, and he could hold it in no longer.

“Stop that!” Greymane snapped. He was still spoiling for a fight, still hunched and baring his fangs.

Saurfang clutched his middle with one arm, weak from laughter. He dismissed the worgen’s posturing with a slight wave. “We’ll make camp here,” he said breathlessly. He knew Greymane’s eyes followed him as he coaxed his mount to a nearby tree to be tied up for the night. Even as he continued to laugh quietly to himself he was aware of the possibility that he might still face an attack—if not to settle their original squabble, then surely to satisfy the old king’s honor. He would welcome it on either account; it would be worth the scars just to have seen a glimpse of the utter indignity on Greymane’s shaggy face.

 

 

“Why Anduin?” Greymane asked later, when both men had settled down and he had changed back into his human guise. The question had seemingly come from nowhere, but the tone suggested, at least to Saurfang’s way of thinking, that he had been dwelling on the matter for some time. “What do you find so compelling about the boy?”

Rather than answer right away, Saurfang instead gave the matter some thought. Finally he arrived at the only response he thought might not spark another fight. “I could ask you the same question,” he said.

It was Greymane’s turn to think in silence. “Because he undertakes each action with every ounce of his heart,” he said after a short time. “And because he is truly selfless and good, which is a rarity in this often terrible world of ours. I have never encountered another ruler who cares so deeply for the good of his people—of _all_ people, really.” He hesitated. “Even those who don’t deserve it. It has been a privilege to be in his trust.”

His praise was moving; Saurfang could find no fault in any of it. “Well,” he said, finding there was nothing he could add, “it seems you have your answer.”

“Yes,” Greymane scoffed, “but I didn’t see those qualities in the boy and decide to _bed him_.”

Saurfang growled. “You underestimate your king if you believe he is incapable of making that decision for himself.” He had been on his back, but now he rolled onto his side to glare at Greymane across the short distance between them. “After all you have said, can you think he would so easily fall victim to manipulation?”

“And you believe he just wanted you that badly, hm?” Greymane asked.

A short huff escaped from Saurfang as he settled back down again. “Is that jealousy I hear in your words, old wolf?”

“Don’t be vulgar,” Greymane scolded. He sounded as close to angry as he had been since they first stopped to make camp. “Anduin is like a son to me. I would never violate him as you have.”

From the corner of his eye, even in the darkness, Saurfang could see the line of Greymane’s shoulder as he furiously repositioned himself on his makeshift bedding. He had turned to face away from Saurfang, and his message was clear: the conversation was over, at least for the time being.

Saurfang couldn’t help but dwell on the matter. From what he’d been told by Anduin, Greymane had apparently made it known that his objection was rooted almost entirely in _what_ Saurfang was—namely, a member of the Horde. Such rigid disapproval built only on the basis of him having been an enemy seemed absurd, and he wanted to dismiss it as more irrational hatred of the same sort that drove Sylvanas in her madness. But then he considered all that the Horde meant to him, what it had driven him to do, and by contrast all it meant to Greymane. He knew the accounts of what had happened in Gilneas, and what had become of Liam Greymane; he had seen firsthand what fate befell those trapped in the boughs of the World Tree. And now Anduin was missing.

To anyone observing from the outside it would seem that everything Greymane had feared was coming true, and Saurfang himself was to blame. Even he had placed the responsibility squarely on his own shoulders.

Steeling himself for what might quickly deteriorate into another fight, Saurfang said, “I tried to leave.”

The air between them fell still. He heard Greymane shift. “What?”

“Several days after he released me from the Stockade. After you found us…” He cleared his throat. “I told him that it was naive to think I could remain in Stormwind without it causing further problems.” He chuckled quietly at the memory of trying to explain his reasoning to a very stubborn young king, who was having none of it. “I am no fool. I can see the target upon my own back. If Sylvanas did not foresee my betrayal when I allowed myself to be taken prisoner, she undoubtedly discovered it when I did not immediately escape. My presence puts the king—and your entire Alliance—at even greater risk.” He did not bother to mention that he was certain his very presence had played a part in what had become of Anduin. It seemed unnecessary, when it was clearly so plain to both men already.

“And what did he say to that?” Greymane asked.

“He… convinced me to stay,” Saurfang answered. “You speak of his nobility, his courage; I had already seen those same qualities in him at Lordaeron, even if I was not willing to admit it. But there is much more to him—something that calls to me.” He shook his head at the night sky. There were some things he had no words to say. “And I believe that he may be able to achieve what we fools could not manage in all this time. I would like to be there when he does.”

An awkward silence descended upon the two men, and for a moment Saurfang regretted saying anything at all. Until Greymane swiftly—and rather obviously—changed the subject and asked, “So, you tried to leave, eh? Where were you planning to go?”

“I hadn’t thought that far ahead,” Saurfang admitted. He was glad for the distraction. His own thoughts were too often more treacherous than his enemies.

Greymane hummed thoughtfully. “And Anduin talked you into staying.”

Saurfang grinned. He couldn’t help himself. “I didn’t say we talked about it.”

“Oh, for Light’s sake!”

 

 

 

Later that evening, beneath the whisper of the grasses and the blanketing chorus of insects, he heard Greymane quietly ask, “Do you love him?”

Saurfang hoped the wolf might fall back to sleep in the long minutes that followed, and his silence would go unnoticed. But he heard movement, and even in the darkness he could see that his companion was still very much awake.

He wiped a hand over his face, and shut his eyes for what he intended to be just a moment. When they seemed unwilling to open again on their own he took a deep breath and said, “Get some rest, old wolf. You’ll need your strength for tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That rogue might as well just accept the rez sickness at the graveyard.
> 
> Part 3 soon, I think. I've already started working on it. Feel free to pop by tumblr for a chat if you have any thoughts on the fic/series, I am super pumped to be closing in on the end of this story, and I'm anxious to jump into the next part.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter may be a little confusing at times. Details are very important here.

Anduin opened his eyes to darkness. He could have been a thousand feet below the ground, or a thousand fathoms below the sea, it made no difference. The air in his lungs felt stale and sharp; each breath was like a knife to his chest, twisting between his ribs. He tried to move, to rip through the unnatural night and back into the world above, but his arms and legs would not—or could not—obey. The Holy Light was gone, and in its place he was enveloped by the weight of an infinite sea of blackness that held no regard for his existence, nor pity for his despair. A feeling like being watched crawled over his skin, skittering across the fine hairs at the back of his neck like spider legs. The desire to flee was overwhelming. He had to escape, to find some way back to the surface—to _move_. He prayed to the Light, desperate for any kind of answer, but none came. In those empty depths, he knew only the darkness could hear his plea.

And then, to his horror, he realized that the darkness was listening.

 

* * *

 

 

Saurfang sat back on the rock that had become his post for the time being. He rested his hands on his knees as he waited for Greymane to finish his own reconnaissance of the area ahead, not bothering to ask whether the old wolf had seen anything more than Saurfang had. They’d been playing the same meaningless game since entering Ashenvale: one would look, the other would question what was reported, and then they would take turns accusing one another of lying, until they finally dropped the matter and moved on. Fortunately, without even really trying, they had somehow managed to streamline the process, and were making decent time.

Greymane had not conceded that Saurfang was right to insist they stop for the night, but his silence on the matter was answer enough. The ancient, towering trees of Ashenvale and their wide leaves threw the entire forest into shadow, and it was difficult enough to see with what little light filtered through the canopy. Had they attempted to travel the distance to the coast with only their eyes to guide them, they would have become hopelessly lost, perhaps even stumbled into a trap. If the beasts of the forest did not discover them first, soldiers from either the Horde or the Alliance surely would. While Greymane could conceivably argue for Saurfang’s life in the latter case—assuming he would bother—Saurfang was not so certain of his prospects in the reverse.

“It seems safe enough,” Greymane said. He was in his true form, fur and all, and his voice was a harsh and guttural growl. “No strange smells, anyway.” He cast a sidelong look at Saurfang, and the ghost of a smile played at the corners of his long mouth.

“Save your clever insults,” Saurfang muttered. He had lifted himself up and over the top of the rocky slope to peer into the distance one more time—just to confirm Greymane’s assessment. “We should go now.”

Greymane nodded, and together they quickly ascended the slope into Darkshore. Going hand over hand was no easy task, despite Greymane’s claws and Saurfang’s strength, but they made the climb regardless, and came over the top without incident. Saurfang stood and straightened himself to his full height, while Greymane took a moment to dust off his coat and trousers.

“Who do you imagine is going to see you?” Saurfang asked incredulously. He shouldn’t have asked, he knew it would only get the old wolf going again, but he couldn’t seem to help himself.

“Some of us have enough culture and bearing to know that dignity is not a matter reserved strictly for ceremony. You may be satisfied with a quick roll in the dirt to keep the flies at bay, but my people are somewhat more civilized.”

Saurfang ignored most of what he’d said, as he had done since leaving Stormwind. “I watched you catch and eat a prairie dog last night,” he muttered, still examining the dense forest ahead. “But since you’re so concerned with bearing, which way do you suggest we go? Or are you too _cultured_ to sniff out our quarry?”

He received a cold glare and a toothy grimace. “North,” Greymane said flatly.

Saurfang smiled. “North it is.”

They had left their direwolves behind, certain there was as much chance the beasts would slip their leads and wander off as wait. Darkshore was a long, curving stretch of coast between the mountains of Northern Kalimdor and the Veiled Sea. It would take a great deal longer to traverse its length on foot, but they had little choice in the matter; remaining mounted would thwart all attempts at subtlety, and leave them open to attack. Better to move between the trees unseen for as long as it was possible. He only hoped Greymane’s nose could lead them to Anduin before their luck ran out and they were discovered. No one knew better than Saurfang what resources the Horde had exhausted to capture Darkshore and the World Tree. Ensuring neither would be lost to an Alliance counterattack meant a staggering number of Horde forces had been deployed to the region. It was a gamble simply setting foot within its borders.

Despite the risk, Saurfang found himself distracted not by thoughts of coming under attack from Horde soldiers, but rather his own troubling part in the conquest of Darkshore. Perhaps it was the lingering scent of ash, or the sense of death that seemed to hover just beyond his sight. The heavy, hollow feeling in his chest had not ceased since they first made their approach from Ashenvale. But it was the silence that bothered him most of all; when he was last in Darkshore the sounds of battle had been inescapable. Now it was as silent as an ancient catacomb, and only the wind whispering through the pines gave any indication of life. He could not ignore his hand in that transformation.

“When we find the king,” he said quietly, not looking at Greymane as they walked, “take him and go. I will cover your escape.”

Saurfang caught a strange look from Greymane, accompanied by a thoughtful hum. “Leave you behind to die, then?” Greymane asked.

“Does the thought of my death bother you?” After a pause, he added, “I will not die here.”

Greymane didn’t seem to have anything more to say, and for once he kept whatever opinions he had to himself. They continued on in silence after that, and Saurfang was grateful for it. He had hoped Greymane wouldn’t press the issue. There was no need; if he died at the hands of the Horde, it would not be in Darkshore. That much they both knew.

 

* * *

 

 

When Anduin opened his eyes again, it was to find himself lying in the sand beneath a perpetual twilight. Stars glittered in the smoky sky, and clouds hung heavy below a moon unlike any he had ever seen. It was reassuring in its own strange way; the dark wasn’t so vast and overwhelming here, the Light didn’t feel so far away. He tried to sit up, but his arms and legs were bound. He pulled at his restraints and they only pulled back.

“I wouldn’t fight the vines, Your Majesty,” he heard a voice warn from the shadows.

Anduin craned his head back and looked up at the source of the voice. It was the night elf he had seen in his chambers, and who had, presumably, led those that had taken him from the keep. The others were nowhere to be seen, but he didn’t doubt they were nearby. “Who are you?” he asked, thinking it best to get the most obvious details out in the open as quickly as possible.

The elf regarded him for a moment, his luminescent eyes tracking the braid of thorny vines that held Anduin tight, as though uncertain of their strength. Strange, given that his captor had apparently also managed to sever his connection to the Light. He tried not to let the fear of that sudden absence show as he awaited an answer.

Finally the elf spoke. “My name is Fen Songleaf. I suppose you’re also going to ask me why I’ve brought you here.” His accent was faint, but Anduin could still hear it in the way he bit down on the hardest sounds in each word. He must have been among humans for many years. “I think you know why,” he added softly.

It certainly wasn’t difficult to guess. Over Songleaf’s shoulder there arched into the sky the twisted corpse of the burned World Tree. Teldrassil’s branches appeared gnarled and twisted, charred a dull black even beneath the light of the swollen moon. It reached up in vain toward the night, toward salvation that had never come. “You wanted me to see for myself what had become of Teldrassil,” Anduin said.

Songleaf nodded. “That is part of it.”

“But—” Anduin stopped himself. He tried to wriggle in the vines’ grasp, finding they could, in fact, tighten further still. Thorns pricked his skin and he winced; he was about to ask for a little breathing room when he felt them go slack around his chest, allowing him to sit up. He took a breath and nodded in thanks. “The risk you’ve taken bringing me here—it won’t end well for any of us. We should leave, before the Horde finds us.”

“Their patrols turn back well north of here, and between our camp and theirs lay acres of untracked forest. You need not fear the Horde will find us here.”

“Forgive me,” Anduin said, “but I have been warned against certainty where the Horde is concerned.”

Songleaf frowned and shook his head, but did not argue further. He seemed to have made up his mind, and it appeared unlikely Anduin’s warnings, however sincere, would do any good. All things considered it was a rather sobering experience for him; he was certain Genn would have appreciated the irony, at least. “You said that was only one of the reasons you brought me here. What are the others?”

“Well, Your Highness,” Songleaf began slowly, “in truth, it was to get you out of the way.”

Anduin balked at that. It sounded so simple, and yet struck him as so cold. “Out of the way?” he repeated curiously.

Songleaf nodded. “You were urged to send Alliance troops to Darkshore to help us reclaim our land, and yet you refused. You had your reasons, I suppose,” he said with a slight shrug. “But what are those reasons to those who have lost their homes? Their families? We have been dealt a great injury, Highness, and we are bleeding. _Azeroth itself_ has been grievously wronged by the actions of the Horde here, and still you do nothing.”

“I cannot—”

“King Greymane, on the other hand, has shown himself to be a friend to our people,” Songleaf continued over his objections, “and in his loyalty he has sent every able-bodied Gilnean soldier he can to aid our cause. Even his own beloved daughter. It is our belief that with you gone, and in command of the armies of the Alliance, he will turn his attention to the Horde here in Darkshore—and our pleas for retribution.”

“Genn will not countermand my orders just because I am gone,” Anduin tried to explain. “Regardless of his own feelings, he will do as I have instructed. Loyalty is not simply a matter of doing what is asked, but rather what is right.” He still hoped to talk some sense into this man before they were both slaughtered by the first Horde soldiers to take a curious look a little farther south. “I grieve for your people, and I have not forgotten the wrongs committed against you, nor have I given up Darkshore and the World Tree for lost. But in order to reclaim these lands for the night elves, I must first win the war that threatens the homes and families of _every_ member of the Alliance. Surely you can understand the dire nature of the—”

“I understand that you claim you have not forgotten us, you claim that your only thoughts are of winning the war to stop the Banshee Queen, and yet you have taken one of her followers as your lover.”

Anduin felt as though all the air rushed from his lungs in one great burst. His mouth worked on a wordless objection, but no sound issued from him. Of course he had known that there were rumors; even if nothing untoward had ever happened, it was still an unusual situation. The fact that it _had_ happened certainly didn’t change that, and he was keenly aware that there were times they must have been more obvious than they believed. But to think that this elf, whose own home appeared to be nearly the other side of the _world_ would somehow catch wind of—

Anduin realized, with a great swell of dismay, how the elves had come to be in his chambers. How they had gained access to the keep, and how they had known so much about his affair with Saurfang.

“The guards helped you, didn’t they?” he asked, already sure of the answer. The guard outside his chambers, who had not been told to stand there, must have been their lookout. They had betrayed him, all because he had taken a former enemy to his bed. It was exactly what Genn had warned him would happen, and he had blindly denied the truth until the moment it did. “Is that how you learned of—” he swallowed hard; it was difficult to be so offhand about it, “—of us?”

“Your own city is filled with our displaced brothers and sisters, King Anduin. Did you think it would go unnoticed for long?” Songleaf asked. There was anger underscoring his words, and the vines around Anduin tightened ever so slightly.

“You must understand, he _isn’t_ our enemy. He did not condone the burning of Teldrassil. He spared the life of Malfurion Stormrage,” Anduin explained, desperate to think of anything—anything that might turn this one elf away from the path he had chosen. Not for his own sake, nor even Saurfang’s, but for what his actions might mean for the entire Alliance. Splintering their remaining forces now would mean the death of all. Sylvanas would sniff out such a weakness and exploit it fully, and he could not allow that to happen. “Please, _listen to me,_ ” he pleaded. “I do not expect you to accept it, nor do I ask you to condone what I’ve done, but Varok Saurfang has put himself at great risk to help the Alliance win this war, and our—what we’ve done has _nothing_ to do with that. Nor has it influenced the direction of our efforts to stop the Horde. Everything I have done is _only_ what is in the best interests of the Alliance. I ask that you consider what we have gained from his support before you rush to judgment.”

Songleaf only watched him, his silver eyes impassive as they looked down on Anduin where he knelt in the black sand. With each word he could feel Songleaf’s interest slipping, until he felt as though he was simply speaking into a void.

His heart lurched, and he suddenly recalled the darkness before, the feel and the weight of it. A surge of panic gripped him. Out of instinct he reached for the Light, and again found himself rebuffed by an unseen barrier. It was like standing in a dark and shuttered room; he could sense its presence, its warmth, but he could not touch it himself. When his attempt failed he looked up at Songleaf. “Why did you separate me from the Light?” he asked, shamefully aware of how fearful he sounded. He did not bother to question how it had been done, as there were any number of artifacts that could neatly accomplish such a task. Rare though they undoubtedly were, he was certain an elf of perhaps many hundreds or even thousands of years could get his hands on one if driven to do so. Anduin found himself wondering who else had helped him. How many had been involved in the plot to steal him away from Stormwind and—

He froze. And what? Did they intend to keep him in Darkshore, bound by roots and cut off from the world for as long as it took to win the war? What Songleaf expected of Genn was not a simple matter of one or two days, it was the work of weeks, even _months_ of planning. Troops would have to be diverted, supplies stockpiled. An entire army would have to be rerouted to an inhospitable stretch of occupied coast. It suddenly seemed to Anduin as though he had greatly overestimated his role in this matter. “Do you intend to kill me?” he asked. The question was posed more evenly than his last had been; he feared death far less than the abrupt and unyielding absence of the Light.

Songleaf didn’t answer. He stood and made a vague gesture, and the vines wound their way around Anduin once again, wrapping his chest and neck, sliding all the way up to cover his mouth. He was turned so that the black husk of Teldrassil loomed before him, across the twilight shore.

“I will return shortly, Your Majesty,” Songleaf said. He lingered a moment longer, and Anduin could almost feel the luminous eyes upon his back. “Until then, I encourage you to take this time to think on the choices you have made, and what choices you _may_ yet make in the future.”

That, Anduin noted sadly, was not a _no_.

 

* * *

 

 

They had not been among the trees for long when Greymane stopped. Saurfang had become accustomed to the sudden interruptions, and he had even learned to anticipate them to some degree. He watched as the old wolf sniffed at the air, turning his head to and fro. “What is it?” Saurfang asked.

Greymane shrugged, plainly confused by what he had scented. “He’s… in two different places,” he said.

Saurfang’s eyes went wide. “He isn’t—”

“No,” Greymane said quickly, as though he was anxious to be rid of the terrible thought. “No, I don’t smell any blood. But I do smell others.” He lifted his nose again. “Many others.”

The way he said it, Saurfang did not imagine those others to be the friendly sort. Breathing out in the ash-laden air, he rumbled, “ _Horde_.” He did not comment on how unsettling it felt to be so eager to face his own people.

“The Forsaken,” Greymane confirmed with a low, throaty growl. His gold eyes narrowed dangerously, and the thick fur around his neck stood on end. “I can smell their rotting stench from here.”

“Which way?”

Greymane sniffed again. He cast a lingering look west, toward the sea, and then promptly turned and indicated east. “Close to the mountains,” he said.

For once, no further discussion was needed.

Owing to the salt of the sea air and the thick pines that grew throughout the region, Darkshore had very little in the way of underbrush. It made for a quick journey through the forest, and almost no sound to alert enemies to their presence. It also left them vulnerable to that same silence. Keeping to the trees would conceal their approach, but it provided them with little to go on besides what they could spy between the towering pines and track with Greymane’s worgen senses. It was for exactly that reason that they stumbled into the camp nearly the same moment they realized it was there.

Purple tents dotted the small grass clearing, and blue-gray smoke wafted from braziers set at uneven intervals between them. A cookfire burned in the center of the camp, with a large iron pot bubbling away above it. There were stacks of supply crates beneath makeshift tarps, and bundles of kindling served as anchors to hold them down. Moving amongst the tents, unaware of their presence for the moment, were a score of night elves.

“What in the Light…” Greymane exclaimed.

 

* * *

 

 

While he waited for Songleaf’s return, and whatever it might bring, Anduin took stock of the area around him. They were on the shore, but far enough from the surf to remain out of reach of the tides. There were several small tents set up in a semicircle, all dark purple and patched in several places with strips of coarser cloth. Crates of foodstuffs and bed rolls were visible within the open flaps, and dried herbs hung from the poles. Out of a single small brazier in the center of the camp wafted a strange, blue-grey smoke. Its odor was sweet and earthy, and Anduin thought he might recognize it, though he could not begin to guess its name. The camp had all the signs of being lived in, but temporary; the food he could see was only enough to last a few days at best, and had clearly been prepared elsewhere. There was no campfire, and no other signs of day-to-day activity apart from eating, sleeping, and now, keeping him prisoner.

He tried to shift and rearrange his legs, hoping to regain some feeling, but the vines would have none of it. He could breathe past the one covering his mouth, at least. The thorns pricking and scraping his skin weren’t exactly pleasant, but he had dealt with worse, and they were manageable so long as he didn’t move. If the Horde found them it would be the least of his worries, anyway.

With each passing minute he was growing more certain in his belief that Songleaf and his associates had no desire to harm him. After all, if they had intended to simply dispose of him, why bother to explain their motives? He thought perhaps they had hoped to convince him of the value of their cause. That by bringing him to see the remains of Teldrassil himself, they might impress upon him the urgency of the matter. And they were not wrong. Seeing the tree was a far cry from reading reports of its destruction. He still knew in his heart that the Alliance could not commit the resources needed to retake it now, but he thought he might better understand what would drive men like Fen Songleaf to such extremes.

He was preparing what he intended to say when he heard a commotion not far from the ring of tents. It was no more than startled conversation at first, followed by hurried movement and shouting. Anduin struggled to sit up on his knees and look toward the source of the sound, but the vines held him tight, squeezing him every time he so much as moved. He growled angrily against the tendril that covered his mouth. To his right he could hear more movement, and then someone let out a terrible shriek of pain. Anduin’s heart was hammering in his chest; was it the Horde? Had he been right after all? A handful of night elves would be no match for an armed unit of Horde soldiers. He _had_ to help.

But the more he struggled against his living bonds, the more they fought to keep him. His thoughts were racing. Songleaf was a druid, and a powerful one if the tenacity of his vines were any indication. Anduin could not hope to break free on his own. If he could only figure out how they had cut him off from the Light…

_But the Light wasn’t his only source of power._

He heard a crash, and from the corner of his eye Anduin could see one of the tents crumple under the weight of whatever had been thrown against it. A soft, pained groan came from the broken pile of cloth and tentpoles, but it was lost in the sound of plate scraping against plate as heavy feet moved through the sand toward him. Whoever it was came upon him from behind, and he squeezed his eyes shut against what he expected to be a swift killing blow.

There was silence, followed by more shuffling of feet as the newcomer moved into view. When no attack came, Anduin opened his eyes and looked up to find himself staring into the eyes of a very large, very tall, very _angry_ orc.

 

* * *

 

  
Saurfang had barely breathed when the first elf spotted him.

“Horde!” the girl screamed, dropping the tray of dried fish she had been carrying. There was a burst of commotion, followed by a mad scramble within the camp, and from what seemed out of nowhere a handful of armed elven warriors appeared.

Greymane was still gaping in shock, but at the sight of the weapons he snapped out of it and instantly shifted back into his human form. “No!” he shouted, holding his hands out defensively as he ran ahead to meet the elves.

Saurfang watched the scene unfold in utter confusion. They had followed Anduin’s scent to find… night elves? Refugees, from the looks of them. Greymane’s defense of him was just as strange and unexpected, and a rare moment of uncertainty left Saurfang frozen in place, his legs leaden and useless. The armed night elves caught sight of Greymane and stopped, and in the brief lull the rest of the fleeing elves peered curiously from between their tents. Total silence fell over the clearing.

“King Greymane!” an elf—a Sentinel, from the looks of her armor—exclaimed. The break in the silence prompted a wave of hushed chatter from the others, and soon a murmur had spread throughout the camp as more and more elves came out from hiding. The Sentinel’s dark brows were furrowed into a tight V, but she had lowered her bow and now approached Greymane cautiously. “I don’t understand,” she said, casting scowl over Greymane’s shoulder to where Saurfang stood.

“We’ve come in search of the king,” Greymane said. “Did he escape? Is he here?” He didn’t bother with introductions; chances were high that doing so would only incite further panic, followed swiftly by violence.

“You’ve come… The king?” the Sentinel repeated. She seemed to be turning the words over in her mind, trying to grasp what was before her, and reconcile it with what she knew. “The two of you?”

“He was taken from Stormwind night before last,” Greymane explained. It seemed he trusted these elves where he had not trusted the guards in Stormwind Keep. Saurfang made note of that. Greymane made a soothing gesture with both hands, and the other elves lowered their weapons as well. “We tracked his scent, and it led us here. Where are the Horde?” he asked.

The Sentinel’s eyes grew wide, and her suddenly fearful gaze flicked to a small wooden cart, tucked behind a nearby tent. It had been covered with a cloth, but Saurfang could see enough of the back to know there was nothing inside. It was what _had_ been there that made his temper rise, and when the elf looked back it was not to meet Greymane’s stare, but his.

“There are no Horde,” Saurfang told Greymane. The elf kept her composure for a moment longer, but finally her chin fell and her shoulders slumped. The bow in her hands hung from her fingertips.

Greymane didn’t seem to understand yet; he looked back and forth between the two of them, lost in whatever silent exchange had slipped his notice. “What does he mean?” he asked her, growing more irritated by the second. “Where are the Horde who took the king?”

It was to Saurfang that the Sentinel said, “I told him not to. I told him the Alliance would never stand for it. But he insisted it was the only way.”

“But I _smelled_ them, I—” Greymane stuttered to a stop mid-sentence, and his head whipped around as though he expected to find Anduin in some dark corner of the camp, surrounded by Horde soldiers. The elves around them were slowly disappearing one by one, slinking back into the shadows to hide. “Told _who?_ ” he demanded.

She looked up again. Her silver eyes were filled with sadness. “My brother,” she said quietly. “His name is Fen. He took the king.”

With each word Saurfang could see Greymane’s fury growing before him; he watched as his shoulders hunched and his fingers curled, the whole of him heaving with each massive breath. Since coming to Stormwind, Saurfang had seen the transformation perhaps a dozen times, but it had never been so violent.

“ _YOU_ TOOK HIM?!” Greymane bellowed. He took a step toward the elf and it seemed as though he intended to strike her down on the spot.

The first arrow struck before Saurfang could intervene. It flew past his shoulder, felling the elf to the right of the Sentinel. Greymane whipped around, and Saurfang’s gaze followed his automatically: charging up behind them, pouring through the trees toward the camp, was a swarm of Horde soldiers.

 

* * *

 

 

The orc loomed over him, and his massive form blocked out even what little light the dark moon provided. All that was left to Anduin was to wait, and hope that, whatever came next, it might provide him a chance to escape.

“Well, well, well,” a high, nasal voice said. A goblin appeared behind the orc, clad in Horde armor just the same as his companion, albeit much smaller. “Whose balls did I fondle to get this lucky?” he asked in a thick accent.

The orc looked up at nothing, and his eyes narrowed as he scratched the side of his shaved head. “Blightcaller’s?” he mused.

The goblin shrugged. “Ya know, I’m not sure Sylvanas let him keep those.” He mocked a bow at Anduin. “What brings you here, Your Majesty?”

The rope of vines still covered Anduin’s mouth, rendering him mute. He didn’t bother struggling against them; Songleaf was nowhere to be seen, but his nature magic held regardless, and Horde or no Horde, it was intent on its purpose.

“Already tied up and everything, too,” the goblin said with a smile. “Awfully convenient for us. I bet he’d have himself outta here already if he could really put on the kind of light show they said he did at Lordaeron.” He snorted a bitter laugh. “Knew it was all a lot of talk.”

“Do we kill him?” the orc asked.

The goblin looked up at him as though he had suggested they open negotiations with the naga, instead. “Only if you want the Dark Lady to crawl up your backside and have your soul for breakfast. Nah, we’ll take him back with us.” He barked a laugh, slapping his partner on the back of his wide leg—likely the only part of him he could reach. “We’re gonna be heroes, you and me!”

The orc seemed pleased by the notion. Anduin found a bit of dark humor in the thought that at least their meteoric rise through the ranks of the Horde would only weaken the overall quality of its leadership. The thought of being presented to Sylvanas was much less comforting. Oh, he would die, but he did not think it would be swift. And it would not be permanent.

“Get him up, would ya?”

The orc brandished a short sword, which he aimed at the thickest of the vines on Anduin’s side. He raised the blade high, preparing a great swing. Suddenly the goblin shouted, “Wait!” He kicked the orc in his armored foot. “What the hell are you tryin’ to do, make two of him? _Unwrap_ the kid, dummy.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘ _oh_.’ You kill him and you can explain to Sylvanas and her undead errand boy why we’re bringin’ back a corpse.” The goblin made a face and marched off out of sight while the orc knelt down and started tugging at the vines. He was enjoying no more progress than Anduin had, but at least his efforts weren’t making them squeeze him any harder, either.

“They won’t move,” he muttered angrily. He gave one coil a sharp jerk, and it did tighten then, making Anduin gasp through his nose when the sharp thorns dug into his skin.

He heard the goblin making frustrated noises behind him, apparently at a loss over what to do. Anduin thought it was an interesting twist of fate that the vines had left him vulnerable to the Horde, and now they were inadvertently keeping him out of its hands. “Ah!” the goblin suddenly exclaimed. He snapped a finger. “Get this one, bring him over.”

The orc abandoned his efforts to break the vines by force and stomped off to obey the order. Anduin heard him crash into the brazier, and the soft scrape of the metal as it landed on its side in the sand. Whatever incense had been burning in its basin was extinguished, along with the familiar scent. There were sounds of movement, objects being shifted and pushed aside, and then a familiar groan—whoever had landed in the tent was still alive.

“Alright,” the goblin said. “Right here in front of His Royalness.” Anduin heard a sniff over his shoulder. “He sure doesn’t smell like a king, though. I thought the only people who smelled this bad were trolls and o—”

The orc, who was dragging something through the sand toward Anduin, huffed indignantly.

“Oh—look at that,” the goblin said too casually to fool anyone, “the elf’s awake.”

Horrified, Anduin watched as the orc dragged Fen Songleaf, bruised and bleeding, by the collar of his robes, and deposited him on the sand in a broken heap. A single glowing eye stared up at him through the swollen mass that had once been the left side of the druid’s face. He was hauled to his knees, and Anduin saw that the rest of him was in no better shape.

“Alright, nature boy,” the goblin said. He had returned to stand where Anduin could see him, and he had his hands on his hips, tapping his foot impatiently. It made no sound in the soft sand. “Here’s the deal: you help us, we help you. Call off your little plant friends so we can get to the prize in the middle, and we’ll let you live.”

Songleaf met Anduin’s stare evenly; they both knew that the vines were the only thing keeping him out of the Horde’s hands, and, at least for the moment, the only thing keeping Songleaf alive. But sooner or later the orc or the goblin—well, Anduin mentally corrected, the goblin—would figure out that killing Songleaf was likely to release Anduin anyway. Resistance might buy time, but if there was even a chance that the goblin would keep his word…

Knowing what he must do, Anduin nodded as much as the vines would allow, giving Songleaf silent permission to save himself. The one eye that the druid could still open widened a fraction, and his brow furrowed. He understood, even if he did not appear to fully comprehend the reasons why. Nevertheless, the thorny coils withdrew, and Anduin gave thanks to the Light as he took a reflexive breath through his open mouth.

“Nice, very nice,” the goblin said. He made a gesture, no more than a flick of his thumb, and the orc hauled Songleaf to his knees at nearly the same moment that he drew a blade across the druid’s throat. It cut deep into the jugular, instantly severing the vital blood flow in a violent burst.

Anduin surged forward. “No!” he screamed, reaching in vain for the Light to heal the wound. Too late he realized he was still bound by whatever Songleaf had done to him; his frantic appeal for mercy met the same wall of nothingness that had thwarted his earlier attempts to free himself.

“Toss the elf over on the pile with the others,” the goblin instructed casually. “We’ll burn it all before we go.”

Anduin stared at the terrible scene before him, too shocked to move. _The others._ How many of Songleaf’s companions had been in his room before? Five? Six? They were all gone now, and he had been powerless to stop the death of even _one_. He felt the blood on his face cooling in the salty breeze, felt it dripping from his chin as he stared at the look of terror forever frozen on the druid’s face. He didn’t know how Songleaf had severed his connection to the Light, or whether it could be easily undone. There hadn’t been time to ask.

As he lifted his eyes to glare up at the orc standing over him, bloodied dagger still clenched in one massive green fist, Anduin decided that it no longer mattered. He did not have the Light, but he did not _need it_.

 

* * *

 

 

Chaos erupted in the camp. Saurfang turned and knocked the bow from the hands of a Forsaken archer, then shattered his brittle jaw with an uppercut that sent him flying back into the trees. Several of the oncoming Horde soldiers stumbled at the sight of him, no doubt surprised to find Varok Saurfang standing in the middle of a night elf camp. Others were already connecting the lines and arriving at the realization that he was not there to _help_ them. When the first blade was raised against him he backhanded its wielder into a stack of firewood. He swiftly dispatched another two—a blood elf and an orc—and retrieved a sword when it fell to the ground at his feet.

“Move your people to the center,” he called out to the Sentinel, “keep them inside the tents!” It wasn’t ideal, but it would do for cover, and with any luck it would keep the civilians out of the fighting.

Smoke filled the air from the many braziers dotting the clearing, and terrified night elves dashed for the flimsy cover of their small tents. All around him the sounds of battle grew louder and louder as more Horde engaged those few able to defend the camp. Saurfang growled at the flash of memory from his own burdened conscience, reminding him of the _last_ time he had held the lives of innocents in his hands.

Another orc charged him with a spear raised for a killing strike, but he easily caught the young warrior and used her own momentum to throw her over his shoulder; she landed hard, and did not get up again. Behind him he could hear Greymane’s savage claws meeting steel, sliding over the nicks in the metal to dig deep into his enemy, and the beastly snarl that accompanied each blow. Above it all was the steady peal of arrows as they flew through the melee to pierce the Sentinel’s targets one by one. The other night elves—those who had come to defend the camp when he and Greymane first appeared—were scattered, but holding, some battling the Horde soldiers hand-to-hand. Already he had seen one fall, burned to death by a mage’s fire. There weren’t many night elves to spare, Saurfang noted grimly—not there, and not elsewhere on Azeroth.

He heard a scream, and turned to find the Sentinel on her knees at the far side of the camp. She had lost her bow, and the blood elf standing over her was already poised for the kill, his sword raised high. Just before he could strike, however, another night elf burst from the tent behind him, hurling herself onto his back. With nothing more than her own small fangs and the strength of her rage, the young female ripped into his neck, tearing the flesh and leaving him scrambling to staunch the fatal wound. He fell, and the girl leapt from his back to assist the Sentinel.

The battle was short, but hard-fought and bloody. Saurfang pulled his sword from the chest of a troll, letting the blood drip from the steel as he surveyed the camp. The Sentinel was on her feet again, accompanied by her unlikely savior; blood coated the young elf’s chin, ran down her throat in a broad, red strip, and soaked her robes to the chest. He gave her a respectful nod from across the clearing, and she grinned ferally back at him.

Suddenly Greymane shouted, “Anduin!” Saurfang turned to find him standing on the very tips of his clawed feet, stretching to reach his muzzle above the smoke.

He opened his mouth to ask exactly what it was the old wolf had sensed, but his words were drowned in the bellow of a distant horn. The sound rolled through the air around them, a thundering call to arms that Saurfang knew would be heard far away, wherever the rest of the Horde were waiting. From their numbers he had suspected that the ill-fated Horde attack had been no more than an advance party. It was likely they had been gathering intelligence on the night elf refugees for some time, and had been expecting to face no more than a lone Sentinel and some villagers. Now the reinforcements would come to finish what the others had started, and a wave of death not even he and Greymane could withstand would wash over the small camp.

Greymane was looking at him. His eyes were no more than slivers of light in the smoke-filled camp. Surprised, Saurfang realized that the old wolf was waiting for him. “Go,” he said. Greymane hesitated for only a moment before he hurried off into the trees, his long strides carrying him west, toward the sea.

The Sentinel turned to him. “We use the incense in these braziers for protection,” she explained. “If he can smell the king so clearly, it means the brazier in my brother’s camp has been extinguished.”

Saurfang only cast her a sidelong look; he had his suspicions that the strange incense he smelled had something to do with the night elves’ continued presence in Darkshore, but he had not yet voiced the theory. It explained the two nearly identical scents Greymane had been tracking, and why he could not determine which was Anduin’s.

“Fen wouldn’t have done it himself,” she said, the words barely more than a whisper.

He nodded grimly. There was no time to worry about that now. He had sent Greymane to aid the boy; if Anduin was in danger, the old wolf would see an end to the threat, or die in the attempt.

Saurfang looked over the cluster of remaining night elves—defenders and civilians alike. There weren’t many. Perhaps twenty-five or thirty remained. Four had fallen that he could see, including two who had been unarmed, and apart from himself, only five might pose any sort of threat to the Horde reinforcements who were, he knew, making haste toward their position even now. He caught sight of the young night elf with the bloodied mouth and neck, and amended his count to six.

“Lead your people away,” he told her. “I will stay and deal with the Horde.”

She raised no objection, but she did not immediately act on his instructions, either. When she had stared at him for near a full minute he rounded on her and snarled, “Did you hear me?”

Stormwind must have softened him, he thought, because she didn’t so much as flinch. Finally, and with a lingering and defiant look up at him, she began issuing instructions to the others. The evacuation was carried out swiftly. It almost seemed practiced, in fact. As he watched them gather what little they had, Saurfang found himself wondering how many times they had been forced to flee.

The Sentinel and her people gathered at the edge of the clearing when they were done. Saurfang himself had taken position in the center of the camp to oversee their departure. There were no young children among the elves, nor any sick or injured to slow them down. They would make it to Ashenvale if they were swift. The Horde would have difficulty tracking them through the dense forests there.

The Sentinel turned. “Please—” Whatever else she intended to say was cut off by a sharp gasp.

The attack had been so swift, so cleanly and powerfully executed, that at first Saurfang did not feel any pain. He looked down, peering curiously at the head of the spear now protruding from beneath his ribs. His own blood sluiced down the curve of the spearhead and darkened the grass at his feet. He sank to his knees and heard the sound of an arrow as it whistled through the air, followed by the dull thud of a body as it crumpled to the ground beside him. When he turned his head he saw the face of his attacker: the young orc he had put down earlier—or so he’d thought at the time. She must have lain there, biding her time as she waited for the opportunity to strike down her enemy. When it had come she’d taken it, and in doing so accomplished what no other had, even knowing the price for that victory would be her life.

He felt remarkably troubled by her death. A warrior of such cunning, such fierce determination, she should have been glorified for her bravery, and for her service to the Horde. Borne back to her people in honor. Instead she would be left to rot, an enemy’s arrow through her skull. Her bones picked apart by scavengers and scattered. One more loss in a failed attack on an already weakened foe. Or worse still, raised from death. No more than another mindless slave to the Banshee Queen’s will.

Saurfang growled uselessly, feeling the life flow from him with his blood. He thought of Anduin. Of how good it had felt to have hope again, to believe it was possible they might yet triumph, and with Sylvanas’ death, bring honor back to the Horde. But there was no honor left in Sylvanas’ Horde. No glory for the fallen. Not for any of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that I've added some tags that apply to this chapter and the next. Also, be sure to check out the note at the end of the chapter.

The din of battle faded behind him as Genn dashed between the trees, all four sets of claws digging deep into the earth as he hastened toward the shore. He could smell Anduin clearly now, no longer muted and deceptively distant as he had been before. Whatever had been covering his scent was gone, and Genn could not only pinpoint exactly where Anduin was being held, but he could smell the blood on him. The closer he drew, the more overwhelming the scent became, until he realized, as he came to a stuttered halt, that not all of the blood was Anduin’s.

There was a second camp, just as the Sentinel had told them, but it was in ruins. The only structure left standing was a single tent, inside of which lay a tangle of bodies. From their purple skin Genn knew they were night elves; from the powerful smell of death that surrounded them, suffusing the very air in the small camp like a dreadful fog, he knew they were long gone.

He turned his attention back to why he had come: Anduin, whom Genn could now see kneeling in the surf, just beyond the very edge of the ravaged camp. The sight of him lifted a great and terrible weight from Genn’s spirit. He took a step forward—and immediately froze.

Two bodies lay between them. The insignia upon the blood-stained armor of the first marked it as that of a Horde soldier, and the dark green skin suggested an orc. There was little else to tell him exactly what he was seeing. The flesh looked as though it had been violently sliced away, but there was no sense to it, nothing to indicate it had been done with any intention. It hung in tattered strips from the mangled muscle and sinew underneath, splayed out, as though some enormous force had simply rent it from the body all at once. He might have thought an explosion had occurred, had there been any sign of one elsewhere in the camp. As it was the body simply looked as though it had collapsed in the sand.

The second was a night elf. His eyes—once glowing, Genn knew—were a dull gray, and almost entirely obscured by the dark pulp of countless injuries to his face. His throat had been cut, and the sand around him was stained dark with his blood.

Unsettled, Genn left the strange and terrible sight behind and made his way down to the water, where Anduin was still sitting motionless in the surf. He approached carefully. His keen senses could pick out the strange rhythm of Anduin’s pulse, and even from several feet away he heard the rapid hiccup of his breath. When he reached Anduin’s side he knelt very slowly beside him.

Anduin was clad in the same loose cloth shirt and plain trousers he had been wearing in the training yard. His boots were missing—left behind in his chambers, Genn recalled—and his feet were bare. Everywhere Genn looked he was dotted with scratches and cuts, and bruises were visible in some places where his skin was exposed. A number of his wounds were still bleeding, but, Genn noted with alarm, even together they could not possibly account for the blood on his face, arms, and chest. His hands were lying in the surf, and so they alone had been washed clean.

“Anduin, my boy,” he prompted gently. He kept his voice low, shifting back into his human form so as not to startle him. “Are you alright?”

What a ludicrous question; of course he wasn’t _alright_. Genn swallowed back his fear that something had been… perhaps permanently broken inside the boy. He placed a light hand on Anduin’s shoulder.

His touch was met with a full-body flinch and a wild look so unlike anything he had expected that for an instant he thought he had been tricked—that it wasn’t Anduin at all, but a clever likeness. But then cold blue eyes softened to something warmer, closer to human, and the rigid line of Anduin’s body relaxed and became more natural. Genn noted with some dismay that he still seemed off, if only to the heightened senses of a worgen. The strange rhythm of his heartbeat had evened, but only just enough to assuage Genn’s fears that he might pass out at any moment.

“Genn,” he said. It was not a question, but more an affirmation; as though he was reminding himself who it was before him. He blinked and repeated, “Genn.”

“I’m here, Anduin. By the Light, what have they done to you?”

Anduin narrowed his eyes for only a few seconds. He turned his head and looked over his own shoulder at the corpse of the orc. “The Light,” he said in the same strange way he had spoken Genn’s name.

Genn frowned. Enemy or not, the sight of the mangled body made him want to shudder. “The Light had nothing to do with _that_ , I assure you. Can you stand?” To emphasize his question he raised himself onto his feet and offered a hand. “Do you need help?” he asked.

Anduin hesitated, but finally he reached up and took the offered hand, allowing Genn to lift him onto his feet. He was in shock, there was no question about it. That itself was not unusual, especially given what Genn could see of the camp and its former inhabitants. No, what worried him was that it was so _unlike_ Anduin—at least, the Anduin _he_ knew. True, the boy was sensitive, and he was opposed to suffering in all its many forms, but he was not untempered; he had seen war, and death, and he’d had a hand in both himself. However gentle his true nature, he could withstand the rigors of what leadership required, and it was often a bloody business. What, then, had rattled him so? Even now, Genn could feel the slight tremor that gripped him, his gaze once more growing cold and distant as he stared out at the sea.

He reached for Anduin’s shoulders and turned him so that they were facing one another. “Listen to me,” he said firmly. “We cannot linger here. Are you able to follow me?”

Anduin swallowed, blinked slowly, and then finally nodded once. “I can follow,” he answered, sounding more like himself than he had since Genn found him.

That would have to be enough for now. “Good,” Genn said. “Stay close to me.”

  

* * *

 

 

Anduin followed Genn, just as he had promised he would, but it was difficult; all around him the shadows seemed to move, flitting about in the corners of his sight where he could just barely see them. He tried to calm his heart and still his breath, but they had no inclination to obey.

Genn had made no mention of Anduin’s panic, if he was aware of it at all. And if Genn wasn’t worried, was there any reason Anduin should be? He was only allowing fear to get the better of him, that was all, and Genn could sense it. Through great effort Anduin had learned to overcome such things when he was younger, but the circumstances of his captivity and close call with the Horde—not to mention the stark and frankly terrifying absence of the Light—had obviously shaken him, and he was not recovering as quickly as he would have liked. His thoughts felt muddled still, and he blamed that, too, on the instinct to flee to safety that was overpowering his reason. There was nothing more dark and sinister at play than the workings of his own overtaxed mind.

And yet, whenever he turned his attention away from the trees, he could swear he saw something dark moving between them.

“We still have time,” Genn said. Anduin realized it was not the first time he had spoken in their flight from the beach, but he could not recall anything else that might have been said to him.

He tried to match his pace to Genn’s, finding he had fallen several steps behind already. It was as though his own body was fighting to stop, or even turn back. Was it guilt? That must be it, he decided: guilt over the dead in the camp. Guilt that he had not saved them. Darkshore itself was a monument to his failures as king.

“Into the clearing,” Genn instructed. “The night elves are—” He came to an abrupt stop, and in both his confusion and haste to keep up, Anduin crashed into the back of him before he realized what was happening.

He blinked and took his bearing while Genn walked slowly ahead, into the clearing. Anduin tried wiping a hand over his eyes in the hopes that it might help. When he opened them again he saw the elves Genn had spoken of, as well as what remained of the larger camp, and—

The breath seized in his throat. A strangled sound tore from him, and then he cried, “Varok!” and rushed forward, past Genn, past the startled night elves. He came to a stop crashing to his knees beside Saurfang, who was—oh, _Light_ —he was dying. Fear had fled, but the panic remained; Anduin began clawing at himself, searching for whatever it was Fen Songleaf had used to hobble him.

“He wouldn’t let us help,” a female night elf said somewhere behind him. She sounded upset, and distantly Anduin realized she was speaking to Genn. “He wouldn’t even let us come near.”

None of that mattered to him. “Where is it? _Where is it?!_ ” Anduin gasped frantically. He was close to ripping off his clothes. He could barely breathe through what even he knew was beginning to border on hysteria. Saurfang’s brown eyes were fixed on the ground at his knees, ground that was soaked with his own blood. Anduin tried not to think of how much he must have lost already. He could heal the wound, he _could_ , if only he could find the source of the damned block… He made a startled, triumphant sound; his hand closed on a hard shape beneath his shirt. Fingers trembling, he grasped and pulled, and found it was some sort of pendant, connected to a leather cord that hung around his neck. How he had missed it before was a mystery. It was small, but not so small that he should have had so much trouble finding it. Finally he managed to break the cord, and in disgust he flung the pendant away from himself. It disappeared into the grass with a soft sound.

The change was immediate. He reached out and Light suffused him, rushing into his awareness, filling his being like a downpour on a dry lake bed. His lingering confusion cleared away, his focus became sharp. He could see now that it was not so simple as merely healing the wound. “Genn!” he called out. Instantly Genn was at his side. Anduin indicated the spear through Saurfang’s chest. “We have to pull it out. I can still save him.”

Genn took a moment to look over the injury, perhaps skeptical of the claim, and Anduin bit his tongue to keep from shouting that there _wasn’t time_ , they needed to act quickly. When Genn turned back to him and nodded, Anduin braced himself; before the spear could be removed it would have to be broken. Genn placed both hands on the haft and looked at Anduin, who nodded that he was ready. With a quick snap, the spear broke, leaving only a few short inches in the back. Anduin winced. He could not imagine the pain, and there was still more to come. He lightly wrapped his hands around the sides of Saurfang’s wide neck and closed his eyes. It felt strange, reaching out so easily, finding the Light so responsive after its long absence. He could not completely heal Saurfang’s wound, not yet. But if he did not bolster him in some fashion the shock of what they did next might kill him.

Anduin watched from the corner of his eye as Genn moved around to Saurfang’s front and knelt beside him. He once again placed both hands on the spear, waiting for Anduin’s signal. This time it would be a matter of life or death how quickly they acted, but Anduin was confident. He knew what to do, even if there was still a part of him that was reeling from his experience. He gave a firm nod, and Genn jerked the weapon forward, pulling it from the wound in one brutal tug before quickly tossing it aside. Saurfang let out a pained grunt and tried to pull away, but he was too weak now to escape even Anduin’s grasp. His breath was coming in shallow bursts, and his skin was cold and clammy. Time was of the essence. Anduin placed one hand over the wound, the other still holding Saurfang’s neck. He leaned into him, not simply reaching for the Light, but grasping it; not a prayer, but a desperate plea. They needed Saurfang. _He_ needed him.

He didn’t realize that he had moved to sit astride one of Saurfang’s legs until the healing was done. The hand that had been on his neck was wrapped around one massive shoulder, and Anduin realized, only belatedly, that he had pressed his forehead to Saurfang’s as well. Even so, he didn’t move. He didn’t care who saw, or what they thought. The hand he had placed on Saurfang’s wound now covered not blood and torn flesh, but a newly formed scar. He felt the broad chest beneath his fingers take a deep, shuddering breath, and opened his eyes to find Saurfang looking up at him.

“Anduin...”

Anduin smiled. There was silence in the camp, broken only by the nervous shuffling of feet upon the grass, and the hushed murmur of the leaves overhead as they moved in some lofty wind. Everything was wrong, Darkshore was too quiet, and yet Anduin had not felt so right in a very long time. He hadn’t even realized that he was stroking the back of Saurfang’s neck with his fingertips until he heard a peaceful sigh.

It was several more heartbeats before he felt Genn’s hand alight gently upon his shoulder. “We have to go,” he said.

Genn would know best of all what sort of danger they were in, as his keen worgen senses could easily detect things Anduin’s own eyes and ears could not. His agitation said more than mere words could express. Anduin wanted nothing more than to remain as he was, frozen in that moment, but he knew better. “Yes, of course,” he whispered.

Getting Saurfang standing again was no simple matter, even with the Light’s generous healing. The wound in his chest was gone, but the consequences of having been impaled remained regardless; he was weak, unsteady, and Anduin struggled to get him up on his feet. His own legs shook with the effort it took to stand under such a great weight, despite what he knew was every ounce of cooperation Saurfang could offer in his current state. Then all at once the burden eased, and Anduin looked over to find that Genn had taken Saurfang’s other arm across his own shoulder, with one hand braced around his wide back. For a moment Anduin wasn’t able to do more than stare at the strange and wholly unexpected sight. Genn caught his eye and frowned, but Anduin had already seen the furrow in his brow, and the unguarded worry in his eyes.

“Genn, are you...”

“Not another word,” Genn growled.

 

* * *

 

 

Although Genn was loath to admit it, he had been relieved to find that the filthy savage was still alive upon their return to the camp. If just barely—on both accounts. Saurfang _had_ proved himself to be a rather valuable asset, after all. If nothing else, he had slain his share of enemies, as well as provided a distraction that allowed Genn to slip away from the battle and go after Anduin. That was all the use that had been required of him, Genn decided, as they carefully made their way through the dense, dark forest. Along with the successful rescue of the king, it certainly seemed enough to warrant a bit of good cheer on his part. He simply kept it to himself.

It had taken the assistance of both Anduin and two or three of the uninjured elves, but together they’d managed to load Saurfang into the back of the wagon, which was somehow intact after the near-total destruction of the rest of the camp. They had then rigged a makeshift harness to wrap around Genn’s shoulders and across his chest, allowing him to pull the wagon and its great green burden in his worgen form. The whole thing worked just fine so long as he remained on all fours, and it was only _mildly_ demeaning. But the truth no one needed to mention was that there simply was no other way; on foot, and dragging a half-dead orc, it would take them hours to reach the border of Ashenvale. The Horde reinforcements would overtake them long before that. And so, with Genn acting the part of the grudging beast of burden, they had loaded Saurfang up like a shipment of grain, and set out for safety.

To Genn’s right walked the Sentinel, unofficial leader of the surviving night elf refugees. She had formally introduced herself to him as Miren Songleaf at the start of their exodus, although it seemed she was already well acquainted with who he was. For much of the first hour she had obligingly carried Genn’s coat for him, using the opportunity to explain some of what had led the small group of elves to remain in Darkshore, when so many others had fled the region.

To his left—when he wasn’t several steps back, anxiously caring for his pet orc—was Anduin. Genn had suggested that he ride in the back, but Anduin refused; despite his many small injuries and bare feet, he had insisted he was perfectly capable of walking. And so he did. There was little Genn could say, and little more he thought might make it through whatever haze still seemed to have a hold on the boy’s thoughts. Anduin was a great deal more himself than he had been when Genn first found him, but he was far from sound. Not yet. Tending to Saurfang seemed to be helping to keep him focused, and so Genn said nothing. He was forced to admit, if only to himself, that he wasn’t certain what he might have said anyway.

The rest of the elves trailed behind in a tight but informal procession. Their progress was by no means rapid, but it was steady. A heavy silence hung between them, and Genn could not claim to be ignorant of the reasons why; silence for the fallen, who they could not even take the time to bury; silence for the home they were once more fleeing. Although he was still furious with these night elves for their part in Anduin’s abduction, he at least had the good sense to recognize that they were not the masterminds of the plot. Most probably hadn’t even known of Fen Songleaf’s intentions, much less that he had actually carried out his ill-conceived plan. The man was, by all accounts, a fool. And from what Genn had seen in the other camp he’d paid the ultimate price for his mistakes. There was no need to punish others for his transgressions. Although Genn would certainly think twice before blindly trusting the next night elf who crossed his path.

“He isn’t what I expected,” Sentinel Songleaf said quietly as she walked beside him.

Knowing she could have meant either Anduin or Saurfang, Genn gave her a curious look. She threw a glance over her shoulder and nodded at the bed of the wagon. “His reputation precedes him, and I do not intend that as a compliment. But the reality is…” She stopped and made a face.

“I’ve found the reality is somewhat complicated, myself,” Genn muttered. From his crouched position he did his best to shrug. “I assure you, it wasn’t my idea to bring him,” he continued. “But I must admit, he has been as good as his word.”

“It’s likely we would all be dead right now if it weren’t for him,” she said. He could still sense a lingering thread of doubt woven through her words, but he had no inclination to argue. Not for Saurfang’s sake, anyway. The orc was perfectly capable of conducting his own defense. Light knew he certainly needed it for the things he had done.

Before he could stop himself, Genn said, “It’s likely you would be looking down upon these woods from the boughs of the World Tree if it weren’t for him.” Too late he thought better of it. Sowing discord would not do them any good while they were so bound together. “I shouldn’t say such things, I—”

She waved a hand to stop his protests. “You’ve said nothing that I have not already considered. But,” she added, shaking her head slowly, “as so many matters are these days, I suppose it’s a great deal more complicated than that, isn’t it? After all, we owe the two of you our lives, regardless of why they were in jeopardy to begin with. And for my brother’s actions—”

“You are not responsible for his crimes.” Just as her doubts regarding Saurfang were so apparent, Genn was sure that she sensed his own lingering resentment. Even an ember still retained some heat, after all. “And your brother has already paid his penance, regardless.”

He watched as she gently placed his coat over the wagon’s sideboard. Her grief was concealed by the silvery glow of her eyes, but he sensed it nonetheless. It was in her pinched brow and the rigid line of her body. He had seen Sentinels in action, he knew them best for their swift movements, like the wind itself granted them a grace too otherworldly for others to fully perceive. They were fast and fierce, and now Genn could see that so much of that had bled from her with the death of what he suspected was her only kin. “I did not do enough to discourage him, and for that I do blame myself,” she explained. “So much has been lost already.” She looked back over her shoulder, and Genn swung his head to follow her line of sight: Anduin had an arm over the side of the wagon, and his hand was lying on Saurfang’s chest.

“You needn’t worry he’ll hold a grudge,” Genn assured her. Anduin could forgive absolutely anything. It was a trait Genn had often feared would be exploited by his enemies. There were nights he had lain awake, dreading the day the Banshee Queen indulged the notion to feign an interest in peace; Anduin would leap at any opportunity to foster harmony between the Horde and the Alliance, and, in his eagerness, stumble right into a trap, heedless of all warnings. Why, they were experiencing the results of his desire to believe the best of everyone even at that very moment. His goodness was nearly unfailing, but it was perfectly capable of failing _him_.

Songleaf only shook her head, however. “In truth, I do not fear the king’s vengeance,” she said.

“What, then?” He could not imagine what was so vitally interesting about the display of poor judgment taking place behind them.

She took a moment to think before answering, and then said, “Fen sought a way to help our people. To make great changes that would be felt throughout the Alliance, and in turn throughout all of Azeroth. And I loved and admired him for that ambition. I did not agree with his methods, but I admit that I secretly hoped he might succeed. And, in a way, he did. But in doing so, he very nearly robbed Azeroth of something rather extraordinary.” She frowned. “Something that, in light of all that has happened in recent days, I am surprised to find so very reassuring.”

That took him by surprise. “Reassuring?” he asked incredulously. “ _That?_ ” He had a number of ways he preferred to describe the frankly disturbing relationship that had seemed to spring up overnight following Anduin’s visit to the Stockade, but _reassuring_ was not among them.

Songleaf persisted; “Can you imagine the Varok Saurfang who was so instrumental in taking Darkshore instead nearly giving his life to protect its people?” she asked. When Genn looked up again he found her luminous eyes bearing down upon him, holding his gaze as they walked together. “I do not know how long their… affection for one another has existed,” she said, nodding in the direction of the other two, “but it cannot be so long that its obvious effect upon him could be described as anything short of remarkable. That gives me hope. Hope that King Anduin is exactly what Azeroth needs.”

Genn finally broke her gaze and turned back to the wooded path before them, and the many shadows that lay ahead. He pondered her words for some time, thinking back on all that had transpired since Anduin brought Saurfang to the keep, and all that he had witnessed in the previous two days. It was Saurfang’s words, shared in the dark of their small camp in the Barrens, that he could not seem to shake. A confession that said more than perhaps even Saurfang had realized at the time.

_“I believe that he may be able to achieve what we fools could not manage in all this time. I would like to be there when he does.”_

Genn had feared the consequences of Anduin’s good heart for so long, feared that the boy’s enemies would abuse his gentle nature. He had convinced himself that Saurfang was aiming to do just that. But was he? Or was it Genn who had set the value of that compassion far short of its true worth? If all the goodness in Anduin could be seized and repurposed as a powerful tool, why, then, could it not be one wielded to the benefit of all?

When next he dared another glance at the wagon behind him, Genn found that Anduin had taken his coat from where Sentinel Songleaf had left it. It was instead draped across Saurfang’s body like a blanket.

Why, indeed.

 

* * *

 

 

Saurfang could hear them talking, all of them, but only in quick snatches. Bits of scattered conversation, lost to his own weariness and the unsteady roll of the wagon upon which he lay. It was Greymane and the night elf Sentinel, mostly, but others were talking, too; the elves murmured amongst themselves as they walked behind him, and not all of it was kind. He hadn’t expected more. He hadn’t _wanted_ more. He had not gone to Darkshore or entered the night elf camp with the thought to win the approval of the kaldorei. His only thoughts had been of Anduin. And he had fully expected to die in pursuit of that goal, most likely at the hands of the Horde. His mistakes were too many to count, and it seemed only fitting that he should pay the price for one of his greatest.

And yet he lived. Every so often he could feel Anduin’s touch upon him, offering him comfort he didn’t deserve. And like a greedy coward, he yearned for it. He wanted everything the young king would give him. His guilt drowned in his desire.

He was at war with himself.

“Should have left him to die,” he heard one of the elves say. Perhaps they did not know he could understand their tongue; perhaps they did not care.

“Who’s to say he won’t tell the Horde about us?” another asked.

A new voice argued, “They already know, you fool.” He could not lift his head to see, but a part of him thought—and perhaps even hoped—that it was the vicious young girl who had leapt into the fray back at the camp. He was fond of her.

For a time there was silence, and he drifted in and out of sleep. Darkshore’s strange sky was beautiful; even amidst all the death, all the wanton destruction, there was still life. Night birds soared between the trees, and insects sang their chorus all around. Perhaps he had not ruined everything. Some of it could still be saved.

“Fen was telling the truth about the king,” came a troubled whisper in Darnassian. “I still can’t believe it.”

“And look what happened to him.”

Saurfang could not help but feel a bit of vicious satisfaction at the news of the druid’s death. He had endangered Anduin, and put the whole of the war effort at great risk. It was just that he had died for what he’d done. Saurfang only wished he could have been the one to carry out the punishment. He didn’t think Anduin would have allowed it, but it might have been nice. He comforted himself with thoughts of how he would have gone about it as they rolled through the seemingly endless wood. When he wasn’t pulled under by sleep he embraced those thoughts of vengeance, even knowing they would be gone again when he woke.

Suddenly he heard another voice, but it was no elf this time. “There is nothing there. _Nothing_ there.” It was Anduin, and he seemed to be talking quietly to himself. He walked beside the wagon, eyes firmly fixed on the ground. What little Saurfang could see of him over the wooden boards was pale and drawn. “ _Stop it_.”

He tried to sit up. Something was wrong, and even if he could not help, he would try. But Anduin saw him moving, and his whole demeanor changed at once. He reached a hand into the wagon and set it upon Saurfang’s chest. A soothing warmth accompanied his touch, followed swiftly by a powerful desire to sleep. He fought it as long as he could; something was _wrong_. “Anduin, what…” he managed, before sleep claimed him once more.

 

* * *

 

 

A more natural night had fallen by the time they finally reached the relative safety of Ashenvale. Anduin was sore and weary, and his thoughts were a chaotic whirl of grief, anger, and no small amount of guilt, but he took comfort in knowing the survivors had been delivered without further losses. With luck they would make it to the Barrens and cross the sea back to Stormwind safely.

“We tied the wolves not far from here,” Genn said. He was speaking to the Sentinel, and hadn’t yet noticed that Anduin had caught up to them. “I imagine they will have little trouble pulling the wagon the rest of the way. Unless you prefer your injured ride them, of course.”

One of the Sentinel’s long ears twitched, and she hesitated before saying, “We… won’t be going with you.”

Genn stopped. Behind them the other elves slowed, and then came to a stop as well. “You _what?_ ” Genn asked. He was still on all fours, still strapped into the makeshift yoke that had been fashioned for his use. “Have you gone mad?”

“Darkshore is our home,” she explained. “We cannot simply abandon it to the Horde.”

He looked to Anduin, apparently having realized he was there. But Anduin could only blink numbly and shake his head at the unspoken appeal; what argument could he rightfully make in either case? His time with Fen Songleaf had taught him a valuable lesson about the lengths some men would go to for their ideals, even if those lengths were ultimately self-destructive. Yet Genn made a good point, and Anduin was inclined to agree. At the same time he could no longer guarantee that it would matter what he thought. Not to these people. He could order the elves to return with them to Stormwind, but would they obey?

“Your home is _lost_ to the Horde,” Genn argued, turning back to the Sentinel. “Remaining here is madness.”

“With all due respect, it is our decision to make,” the Sentinel said. She was far calmer than Genn, which was frequently true when someone challenged the older king, but Anduin could sense her mounting frustration. She had been anticipating this resistance.

“You are subjects of the Alliance—”

“But we are kaldorei _first_. You understood that before. We have all suffered for this land, even some of your own, and to abandon it now would render those sacrifices meaningless.” Her ears were pinned defiantly, and she shook her head as though she was fighting some other battle within. “My brother died trying to save Darkshore. How he went about it was wrong.” Her silver eyes met Anduin’s blue, though it was clear she spoke only to Genn. “But his goals, his ideals, were not. We stayed when Teldrassil burned because we refused to let the Horde win. Running now would give them that victory.”

“But you would survive,” Genn insisted. “Is that not more important?”

“Perhaps.” She finally broke her hypnotic gaze and turned back to Genn. “But we are not alone here. There are others, those you have sent your own soldiers to support. We will find them, and together we may yet reclaim our home.”

“You have barely five trained fighters among you. Let us take the others, at least.”

The Sentinel lifted her hand to point a finger at the gathered night elves, still waiting silently behind the wagon. They were untrained; simple merchants, farmers, and craftsmen, but they stood proud, every one of them. Some were bloodied, and Anduin realized with no small amount of shock that it was not all their own. Even untrained, they were still night elves. Underestimating them was a mistake, he saw that now. “Anyone can fight,” she said.

Anduin knew then that it would not matter what anyone said. The decision had been made.

“I wish you luck, Sentinel Songleaf,” Anduin said. He surprised himself, but he knew at once that it was true, and that he had faith in their determination. “The Alliance will do whatever it can to aid you in your cause, although I cannot promise that it will be as much as you need.”

She smiled down at him. For a moment her great sorrow seemed to lessen, if only a little. “Thank you.” She turned back to Genn. “Both of you. Simple words cannot express our gratitude for what you have done today.”

Genn sighed. He seemed to have taken his cue from Anduin, and given up the fight. Anduin wondered if perhaps he was simply too tired to continue, or if he had been truly swayed by her conviction. It was likely he would never know either way. “We will leave you with the wagon,” he said. “For your injured.”

“That is most kind of you, but will _your_ injured be able to make the journey mounted?”

“I’ve found nothing thus far that can kill that great savage,” Genn muttered crossly. “A little ride across Kalimdor probably won’t do it either.”

The Sentinel nodded. She seemed genuinely amused by his bluster. “Please, give him our thanks as well.”

Genn shook his head. “I doubt he’ll accept.”

“All the more reason to offer.” She watched as he extracted himself from the harness, effortlessly shifting back into his human form as he did. “Elune be with you all,” she said, bowing deeply. Genn and Anduin returned the gesture, and watched as she rejoined the other elves, no doubt to plan their next move. He did not envy them the battle ahead, even faced with his own. His burden was no less than the preservation of the entire Alliance, and the continued existence of its people, but he had resources and protections these elves did not. They faced a far more immediate struggle. One not fought across maps in war rooms.

When Anduin pulled himself out from his own thoughts he saw that Genn was already at the back of the wagon, urging Saurfang to sit up. “Help me with him,” he snarled, tugging at the leather straps that crossed Saurfang’s chest. “You wanted to keep him alive so badly.”

“You’ve found a dog to guide me,” Saurfang said, a faint but wry smile on his face. “I see you didn’t die,” he said to Genn.

“Nor you. And we’re all the poorer for it. Get up on your feet, I’ve no intention of carrying you to the wolves.”

Saurfang laughed. He sounded weak still, but a great deal better than he had before. “Rather feed me to them.”

“Don’t think it hasn’t crossed my mind,” Genn said.

They made their way to where Genn indicated the wolves had been tied, going slowly over the rocky ground and down the slope into Ashenvale. More than once Anduin was forced to shore up Saurfang, lest he fall, and each time he saw the same look of worry in Genn’s eyes. He said nothing, thinking perhaps it would do more harm than good if he drew attention to it. If all that had come from this terrible misadventure was the slightest tolerance between the two men, he would consider it a worthy price. He watched Genn help Saurfang into a saddle and hand him the reins.

“You’ll ride with me,” Genn said to Anduin, and his tone brooked no argument. “If that brute collapses I won’t have him take you with him.”

“Of course, Genn,” Anduin said easily. He accepted the hand offered to him and climbed onto the direwolf’s back. The relief that came over him when the weight was taken off of his feet was so immediate that he felt tears welling in the corners of his eyes. He hadn’t realized how hard it had been, making the journey as he had.

Genn seemed, if possible, more perturbed by Anduin’s quick acceptance than anything else. If he’d caught the moment of unguarded emotion he chose not to remark on it, and he eyed them both suspiciously for a few seconds longer. When nothing more came of it he frowned and reached for the reins, gathering them in his hands. “If we make it back to Stormwind in one piece it will be a miracle,” he muttered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This is not the last chapter.** I know I had listed it as a 4-chapter story before, but the last part turned out to be so long that I decided to split it into two. The 5th chapter is complete. I'll try to post it later today.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've reached the end! (Of this story, anyway.)
> 
> I wanted to thank my fiance for helping me out with ideas when I got stuck, as he always does. Also Mach and Indifen, who ship and don't ship this respectively, but let me ramble at them all the same. And of course Esther and Winzler, who are both fairly new to Warcraft, but let me complain to them in long paragraphs anyway.
> 
> Also honestly everyone who has left comments and kudos. I have been so excited to work on this because you guys have all been so awesome. I have this whole story planned out, and you guys make writing it as much of an adventure as I hope reading it is.
> 
> I'll shut up now. :>

The journey back to Stormwind took them nearly two whole days. Upon their arrival the servants had immediately led Saurfang to his chambers to rest, and Genn had disappeared, no doubt to confront one of Tyrande Whisperwind’s representatives. That left Anduin to deal with the aftermath of his abduction, and the traitors who had orchestrated it. A matter he had been dreading since first arriving in the Eastern Kingdoms.

Now he watched, silent and impassive, as the last of the treacherous guardsmen were led away to the Stockade. To his surprise, it hadn’t taken long to identify the guard who had been standing post outside his door the night he was taken. Once they had him in custody, Shaw and the other members of SI:7 had been able to root out the other co-conspirators with relative ease. It seemed their part in the betrayal had not been nearly as well planned as Songleaf’s. That shouldn’t have surprised Anduin; the guards weren’t trained assassins, or true revolutionaries, but simple men and women of Stormwind. Once-loyal citizens of the Alliance who had seen what they perceived as a flaw in their leadership and taken steps—albeit drastic ones—to resolve it. Under nearly any other circumstances their initiative might have viewed as an admirable trait.

He scowled at the floor. What a waste.

“I suppose you’ve been saving an I-told-you-so for this very moment,” he said to Genn, who was waiting in the doorway. The throne room was empty apart from the two of them, Anduin having dismissed the rest of the guards once the unpleasant business with the conspirators was concluded. The fewer liveried bodies around him at that moment, the better.

“Do you really think so little of me?” Genn asked. Anduin had expected anger, but Genn only seemed hurt by the accusation, and he made no effort to hide it. “I thought we’d lost you.”

Anduin sighed. He still hadn’t slept, nor bathed, and he could feel the weight of his ordeal bearing down upon every muscle in his body. He wished there had been some way to set aside the business with the guards until morning, but it simply wasn’t possible. And if he had even suggested it, he was certain Shaw, at least, would have simply begun an investigation on his own. Once the rest of SI:7 had learned of his brief disappearance it was all Anduin could do to keep them out of the shadowy corners of every room. His privacy was already at something of a premium, there was no need to sacrifice more of it.

“I’m sorry,” he said honestly. “I know the risk you took coming after me. I shouldn’t be so cynical.”

Genn harrumphed dramatically and finally entered the room. He stepped up beside the throne and crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, I suppose under the circumstances a bit of cynicism can be forgiven. It isn’t every day this sort of thing happens, after all.”

“I certainly hope not.”

That managed to draw a chuckle from Genn, which in turn made Anduin smile. He was happy to be home. Happier still to have both Genn and Saurfang alive and well, and safely back in the keep with him.

As though Genn could read his thoughts, he asked, “Speaking of enormous risks, where has that orc of yours gone?”

Anduin feigned a disapproving frown. “Resting,” he said. “King’s orders.” In fact, convincing Saurfang to remain in his chambers while Anduin dealt with the small matter of his duplicitous guardsmen had been something of a feat in itself. Even in his weakened state, he had been utterly set upon a path of vengeance, and Anduin had finally resorted to calling upon the Light to soothe his fury. It was for his own good, Anduin had reasoned; Saurfang was in no condition to go storming about the keep, much less face down even a significantly less experienced enemy.

“Good to know he listens to _someone_ ,” Genn muttered only somewhat bitterly.

“Yes, well,” Anduin paused to take a deep breath and let out a very long, very needed sigh. “On _my own_ orders, I am also going to retire to my chambers.” He thought he might be able to sleep for a solid week, if given the chance. It was unlikely, or rather impossible, but he would take whatever he could get and be grateful for it. His bare feet were loud on the throne room floor as he marched, exhausted and aching, in the general direction of his bed.

He heard a quiet cough behind him. “Anduin?”

He turned slowly, finding that the short journey from the throne had taken what little composure he had left; his weary frown was deep and his eyes were pleading. It was not the sort of regal bearing one would expect of a king, but, in his bare feet and tattered clothes, he didn’t feel particularly kingly at that very moment. He didn’t much want to be king for the next several hours, in fact.

He was about to say as much when Genn made an up-down gesture with his finger and said, “You may wish to clean up before you crawl under your blankets.”

Anduin looked down at his torn and bloody clothes and filthy feet. He sighed, “Yes.”

“Do try to stay _above_ the water.”

 

  
He entered the first room of his chambers and found that nothing had changed—apart from the windows, anyway. They were now latched securely where they had been open before. Anduin supposed that was wise, although he briefly mourned the loss of the starlight and the cool breeze. His chambers were unusually muggy, and the damp air reminded him of lying in the sand, bound by living vines. It was a feeling he longed to be rid of, and doing so meant divesting himself of all possible reminders. He had not gone ten steps before peeling the remains of his clothing from his body, casting them into the fire already burning in the hearth.

Stripped down to nothing but his bare skin, he crossed through the bedroom and into the bath, where he found the wide stone basin already filled and ready for his use. The room itself was suffused with a warm and perfumed mist. He also found that he was not alone.

“Well, it was an open-ended invitation, I suppose,” he said.

Saurfang was already in the water, submerged to his waist. He was leaning against the back wall of the generous stonework bath with his arms upon the lip. For the first time that Anduin could recall, his long hair was loose, with no adornments nor braids to be seen. The new scar on his chest stood out against the older marks left over from decades of previous battles, a darker shade of green and a reminder of how close he had come to death. “I can leave,” he offered, a challenge in his tone that Anduin did not for a moment take seriously.

Instead of rising to the bait, Anduin only smiled. Weak and sleepy, it did little more than lift the corners of his mouth. He shook his head. “You don’t want to leave any more than I want you to.”

With a sound like a sudden and powerful waterfall, Saurfang stood, letting the bathwater run down his naked body and back into the bath. He made to take a step forward, and stopped. There was something stuck to his chest.

“I take it you didn’t prepare the bath yourself,” Anduin mused.

Saurfang looked down and grimaced. He plucked a pink rose petal from his skin. “No,” he said.

“That may be the servants’ way of politely telling me that I could use a good soak.”

Flicking the petal aside, Saurfang stepped forward through the water and held out a large hand for Anduin to take. “Join me,” he said.

Anduin could think of nothing he’d like better. He took the offered hand and let Saurfang draw him forward, into the water that bit like hot fangs at the cuts on his legs and feet. He pulled until Anduin was flush against his broad chest, and held him there. For a moment they simply stood that way, enjoying the warmth of the water and one another, content to simply be.

After some time had passed he heard Saurfang sniff lightly. “You do stink,” he said.

“Thank you,” Anduin said with a frown. He looked up and found Saurfang grinning. “You know—”

“Come,” came the much gentler command, and Anduin suddenly found himself drawn down to the water. He hissed as it enveloped his thighs, his hips and waist, and finally most of his chest. The wounds that had been scraped into his skin by Fen Songleaf’s vines were once more as raw as they had been when they were made, and Anduin bit his lip to keep from crying out. He hadn’t even realized his eyes were shut tight until he felt warm fingertips carefully lift his chin. “Look at me.”

He obeyed and opened his eyes. Saurfang was kneeling in the water before him, looming over him where he sat upon the stone floor of the bath. In one hand he held a dripping cloth.

“Tell me if I hurt you,” he instructed.

Anduin nodded, this time biting his lip for an entirely different reason. The bathwater, a mixture of whatever salts, oils, and other fragrant items the servants had found, beaded enticingly on Saurfang’s skin. And he was so _very_ close. Suddenly the desperate need for sleep seemed so much less… well, desperate.

A fit of pique gripped him suddenly, and he smirked as he said, “I thought you preferred me filthy.”

Saurfang’s hand, and the cloth he had been using to gently wash Anduin’s skin, stilled where they had been gliding over the curve of his shoulder. He leaned in and placed a hand on the edge of the bath. It forced Anduin to arch his back if he wanted to maintain eye contact—and he did. “I prefer you clean,” Saurfang rumbled. He almost sounded annoyed by Anduin’s teasing.

Before he could raise an objection on his own behalf, Anduin was silenced by fangs gently grazing his temple, and a whisper of, “I prefer you filthy, too.”

“O—oh,” Anduin stammered. Clearly it had not been _aggravation_ he heard, but something much more stimulating.

“I prefer you clothed,” Saurfang continued, and the hand that had been guiding the washcloth began moving lower. “And I prefer you bared for only me to see.”

Despite the warm water, Anduin could feel his skin flush hot and his pulse quicken. He chanced a look down and realized that Saurfang’s words were not mere flattery: his cock was standing out of the water and hard against his abdomen, glistening with the same tantalizing beads of perfumed water that graced the rest of his powerful body. It was all Anduin could do to keep himself from reaching out and grasping it with both hands. Instead he forced himself to look up, and meet Saurfang’s dark eyes. “How else would you like me?” he asked, barely more than breathing the words.

Saurfang looked down and smirked. “Bent over the edge of this bath,” he said plainly.

Anduin did not need to be told twice. He rose up on his knees and turned around. His hands were grasping the edge of the smoothed stone, but Saurfang had other ideas, it seemed; he pushed on the center of Anduin’s back until he had no choice but to drop to his forearms, instead. That was quite alright with Anduin. His heart was hammering in his chest, the anticipation building with each breath. He felt the wide hand on his back slide lower, down to his thighs, and then—

And then Saurfang began washing his backside.

“ _Uh?_ ” was not quite what he had intended to say, but clever quips eluded him at the moment.

Saurfang’s other hand moved to track the spiral pattern of cuts and bruises that wrapped Anduin’s thighs, back, and shoulders. “You could heal these,” he said.

Anduin shook his head. “There’s no need, they'll heal on their own in time.”

That earned him a considering hum, and he was not entirely convinced it was intended as approval.

Apparently satisfied with his work elsewhere, Saurfang drew the washcloth up and down Anduin’s back, softly scrubbing the dirt from his skin, and, he was forced to admit, taking a great deal of weariness and tension with it. He sighed and leaned his chest against the stone.

Suddenly his hair was caught by powerful fingers and his head bent forward. “What…?”

“What is this?” Saurfang asked. He was not causing any pain, but his grip with implacable. He traced a finger along the base of Anduin’s neck, and a stinging trail followed in its wake.

“That’s—” That was where, in a blind panic, he had attempted to tear the leather cord from his neck. Fen Songleaf’s relic had prevented him from reaching the Light, and nearly prevented him from saving Saurfang as a result. He had been desperate, heedless of his own pain as he repeatedly wrenched the cord in an effort to free himself of the magic that bound him. He shrugged lightly. “That’s a small price to pay for your life,” he said quietly.

“Heal it.” It was not a suggestion; it was an order.

Anduin felt himself flush, but this time with anger. He pushed off from the edge of the bath and turned around on his knees. “I am not yours to command,” he said furiously. He regretted the words the moment they passed his lips. “Varok—”

But Saurfang was already standing. The water once more cascaded from him, splashing across Anduin, who was still kneeling at his feet. For a moment they remained frozen that way, an awkward tableau. Then Saurfang lifted his leg to step out of the bath.

“Please, don’t go,” Anduin pleaded. “I know you’re only concerned for me. I—I haven’t been myself lately. I’m just so very tired.”

“Then you should sleep.”

“I don’t _want_ to sleep,” he snapped. It was, in hindsight, a childish objection. He was just too exhausted to care. “I want you.” He reached out and took Saurfang’s hand in both of his.

Brown eyes regarded him carefully for what felt like an eternity, and then Saurfang relented; his foot came down again, and he stepped back into the bath and sat down in the water once more.

“Let me show you,” Anduin said, crawling into his lap. He hooked one arm around Saurfang’s shoulders, just as he had done in Darkshore. With the other he reached down to stroke first himself, and then Saurfang. “I _am_ yours,” he promised. “All of me.”

Again Anduin felt the tug of fingers in his hair as Saurfang took hold of him, wrapping his other arm around his waist to pull him in close. There was no longer any anger in his eyes, nor heat in his words as he said, “And I am yours. To command,” he added, before leaning down to nuzzle at the hollow of Anduin’s throat. “To have however you would like. Whenever you would like.”

Anduin could only groan and rock his body against Saurfang’s. His cock was pressed between them and it ached to be touched, his arousal driven by the feeling of the stiff length in his hand. But Saurfang seemed content simply to hold him. That would not do. “ _Take me,_ ” Anduin breathed in his ear. He nipped at his pierced earlobe, and when that rewarded him with a quiet gasp, Anduin grew bold: he dipped his tongue into Saurfang’s ear, and felt a shiver in return.

The hand at his back slipped down until Anduin could feel the nudge of a large finger. He spread his legs astride Saurfang’s thighs and tucked his face into the space below his chin. “Right there,” he whined, pausing to lick some of the water from the green skin that had been tempting him since the start of their bath. “Touch me there.”

Saurfang obliged, and Anduin tensed as a finger breached him. The warm water rushed in with it, and the sensation was both strange and wildly arousing. Oils already in the bathwater slicked the way for him, and Saurfang pressed deeper. Anduin had to fight to keep from pushing down, demanding more. He knew his fingernails were digging into Saurfang’s skin, but he couldn’t bring himself to care; injuries could be healed, but he _needed_ this. Now.

“Is that what you want?”

The question vibrated up through Saurfang’s chest and into Anduin, and he nodded as he begged, “More.”

Before he could process what was happening, he found himself lifted with one strong arm, the other still hooked under his thighs. Saurfang raised himself up onto his knees, and then Anduin was no longer in the water, but being held just above it. The sheer amount of strength required to keep him there with little more than one arm—Anduin whimpered at the thought of it. He wanted all of that for himself.

When the finger slipped back out of him Anduin couldn’t help but whine. He felt the blunt head of Saurfang’s cock take its place, and he quickly sucked in his breath and held it. Slowly, ever so slowly, the slick shaft spread him open and pushed into him, filling him until he was sure there was nowhere else for it to go. Anduin’s feet were still in the water, and his toes curled uselessly as Saurfang pulled him down the rest of the way, until pink skin was flush against green, and Anduin could feel every shift and twitch inside him.

After what was almost too little time, Saurfang moved Anduin back and pulled him down again. He was not thrusting himself, his own hips were nearly motionless, and the realization drove Anduin wild with desire. He let his head fall back and groaned as he was ground down upon Saurfang’s cock. His own erection lay against his stomach, aching and untouched. Anduin knew he could relieve the pressure himself, he just couldn’t seem to summon the will. He listened instead to the sound of the water lapping at Saurfang’s thighs, the heavy grunt each time their bodies came together again, and his own labored breathing. “Please,” he begged hoarsely, “please—”

“Tell me what else you want,” Saurfang growled. “Command me.”

Anduin’s arms hung uselessly at his sides, and his fingertips trailed in the warm water. He was close to coming, touched or not, and he could hardly think. The words tumbled freely from his lips. “Mark me,” he whined, “inside and out, _please_. I want to feel you long after you’re done with me. I want to know you had me every time I take a breath, every time I _move_ , Varok, I—” He cried out when Saurfang slammed deep into him without warning. The fingers at his back curled and clawed at his skin, and Anduin couldn’t have made himself care. “I don’t want you to hold back,” he finally admitted in a great burst, nearly shouting his confession.

Saurfang suddenly pulled out, leaving Anduin feeling utterly bereft and whining for what he’d lost, but that only lasted for a few seconds. Without any warning he dropped Anduin into the water, flipped him over, sputtering and gasping, and pushed him forward onto the edge of the bath. Anduin had barely had a chance to wipe the wet hair from his eyes before he felt Saurfang pushing into him again, and he groaned low and deep as it seemed to squeeze all the air from his lungs. There was no pause to adjust, no tender moment between them; Saurfang immediately pulled back and drove in again, faster with each thrust, until the water of the bath was a wild sea around them. All Anduin could do was hold tight and let his cheek rest against the cool stone while he was thoroughly used. His chest collided with the edge of the bath each time, and he knew there would be bruises, but he didn’t care. In fact, he welcomed it.

Almost as though he could read his mind, Saurfang paused his frantic thrusts long enough to reach up and grip Anduin by the back of the neck. It put his fingers on the burn from the leather cord, and Anduin made a sound that he couldn’t have guessed he was capable of making until it was tearing from his throat. He knew he tightened around Saurfang when he heard a surprised cry in return, followed by a hard shove that made him see a flash of bright behind his eyes, but Anduin was no longer conscious of his own body’s responses. Each time Saurfang pushed in again he dragged his cock across the spot deep inside Anduin that left him trembling. His breath was quick and shallow, his thighs shook and his knees were sore. A dribble of come leaked from the end of his cock, and it slicked the smooth stone as each thrust drove him against it. The sensation was driving him mad. He begged for more with a wordless whimper. His fingers slipped and clawed and scraped, and then all at once he let go; he was coming, spilling into the water of the bath as it churned around them. A stream of curses tumbled from his lips. He was caught between the instinct to pull away and the desire for more, and he shuddered through the small space between the two until he had no will left to choose either.

When it was over he wanted nothing more than to let his body go limp and sink into the water, but Saurfang was not done, and seemed to have no intention of relenting. With each plunge he pushed Anduin’s backside up until he was nearly lifting him off of his knees. “You’ll feel me tomorrow and the day after that,” he snarled, punctuating the promise with another deep and furious thrust. “And when my marks start to fade, and you begin to forget what it was like to be claimed by me, I will _remind_ you.”

Anduin tried to nod, but his neck was still trapped beneath the weight of an arm too powerful to move.

“You’ll heal everything but my bruises. _My_ marks.”

“Anything, anything,” Anduin babbled. He would do whatever was asked of him, eagerly.

“I want you to come again.”

That stalled something in Anduin’s mind long enough for him to realize what was being asked of him. He tried to look back at Saurfang over his shoulder. “But—”

A roar and a hard shove silenced him, and somehow, despite having just come harder than he could recall, Anduin felt his arousal stirring again. He reached down with one hand and took hold of himself. “I want yours,” he said. His lips felt too numb to manage anything more.

“You’ll have it when you do as I say,” Saurfang promised. “And not a moment sooner.”

Even through the blissful fog that had filled his brain, Anduin knew that wasn’t entirely true; he had already noticed the slight hitch in the roll of Saurfang’s hips, the way his body shook now each time he drew back. He was fighting to keep control, and it would likely take very little to push him over the edge.

It was that knowledge that made Anduin hard again, and the proud, eager sound it earned him from Saurfang that set him on the path to his second climax of the evening. He let himself go and let the pleasure wash over him, and when he was lifted up from the edge of the bath and pulled flush against Saurfang’s chest, he simply closed his eyes and basked in it. A hand came up under his chin to hold his throat, another found its way between his legs. Saurfang continued to plunge deep into Anduin’s body even as he stroked him, but his focus was no longer on his own pleasure; he was intent on seeing to it that his demand was met, even if he had to do it himself.

Anduin was happy to oblige. He babbled something, knowing it could barely be called words, his body wracked with shivers and twitches that he could no longer hope to control. It hit him hard the second time, but like an undertow it seemed to pull him down at the same time, sapping every last ounce of energy his body had left to give, until he was no more than a limp form held up by Saurfang’s arms.

“Are you ready,” Saurfang asked. Somehow his voice broke on the end of the question. Distantly Anduin realized what a powerful feeling it was to know he had driven Varok Saurfang to the point that he could barely contain himself.

But he could no longer find the strength to nod, either. Instead he let his head fall back and stared into Saurfang’s eyes with what he hoped was all the need burning in him. It either worked or Saurfang simply reached the limit of his self control, because he pressed a hand to Anduin’s stomach and held him still. The frenzy of movement in the bath came to a sudden stop, and the room fell silent as Saurfang made good on his word, and finally gave Anduin his release. His hips moved in short, shallow bursts of motion, and he barely breathed, but through his back Anduin could feel his massive heart hurling itself against the walls of Saurfang’s chest. It all seemed to go on forever, and it wasn’t until he felt a line of warmth sliding down his cooling skin that Anduin let out his own long, contented sigh. His fingers entwined with those still pressed to his belly, and he smiled.

“I’m so glad you came for me,” he managed to say. He had meant in Darkshore, but too late he realized it could be taken a number of ways. Some more intimate than others. It didn’t really matter how Saurfang took it, however; he meant it regardless.

They bathed again after that—quickly, because Anduin thought he might be at serious risk of drowning if he didn’t reach a bed soon. When he stepped out of the bath he was wrapped in a warm, dry towel, and unceremoniously scooped into arms he had no inclination to fight, even if he thought it might have done him any good. Saurfang carried him into the bedroom and, with one hand, threw back the covers, slipping Anduin out of the towel and into the blankets with surprising skill and tenderness.

Anduin could barely keep his eyes open, but he watched between his heavy eyelids as the lights in the room winked out one by one. Saurfang left a single candle burning on the table by the window, and Anduin was silently grateful for the gesture. He continued to watch the candle’s light dance as Saurfang disappeared into another room. A short time later he returned, bearing the leather trappings, tunic, heavy boots, and belt he had worn on their recent adventure. It seemed he was leaving.

They had never spent a whole night together, it was true; for his part Anduin feared some servant might wander into his chambers without thinking, and expose their secret. Saurfang, on the other hand, was simply disdainful of human beds—or so he claimed. Anduin mourned the lack of intimacy, but he understood why it was necessary.

Still, the thought of being alone, especially after the harsh and terrifying emptiness of the dark before, was unbearable. Finding strength he didn’t know he still possessed, Anduin reached out and grabbed at Saurfang’s wrist when he came near again. “Stay,” he whispered.

In the shadows of the room it was difficult to make out whatever expression passed over Saurfang’s face, but there was something. Surprise, perhaps?

“Stay with me, Varok,” he said again. “Please.”

He let go, expecting his request would be rejected. Whatever they meant to each other—and even he knew that it was far more than either might have realized before—they were still very much their own people, with their own wants, their own ideas of what it meant to be a part of something else.

When Saurfang disappeared from Anduin’s narrow field of vision, swallowed up by the shadows beyond the candlelight, he tried to hide his disappointment. He was a man, and he could live without the comfort of a warm body beside his.

But then he felt the bed dip behind him, and try as he might to deny it, his heart soared. He rolled over, eagerly folding himself into Saurfang’s open arms, unable to hide his smile until he tucked it away against his lover’s broad chest. He felt a warm puff of air across the top of his head, accompanied by a quiet chuckle. “Hm?” he asked. He remained as he was; no force on Azeroth could have pulled him away from that welcoming space in his bed.

“Nothing,” came the reply above him. Saurfang absently stroked a hand through his hair. “A question I could not answer before. It came back to me just now, that’s all.”

Although exhausted, Anduin was still curious. “Could you answer it now?” he asked sleepily, the words stretching out into a yawn. His eyes were closing again, and he felt the heavy tug of slumber claiming him.

The fingers in his hair stilled for only a heartbeat. “Yes,” Saurfang said quietly.

 

* * *

 

 

Saurfang awoke the next morning to the unfamiliar sensation of warmth beside and around him. He opened his eyes to the motes dancing in the pale light cast between the heavy curtains. It was early yet, and in his opinion the last several days had been far too taxing to be awake at such an hour.

He looked down at the source of the heat that seemed to have wrapped him in its grasp; Anduin’s left arm was draped across his chest, and one of his legs was hooked around Saurfang’s thigh like an anchor. The sensation was eerily similar to being strapped by a large sea creature. Closer still a tousled head of blond hair lay at his shoulder, its owner fast asleep. Most of his body was obscured by the blanket that covered them both, but Saurfang could see the steady rise and fall of one slender shoulder as Anduin slept for the first time in days. When he lifted the blanket he found fingers tangled in the loose locks of his hair. As though in his sleep, Anduin had sought to cling to every part of him that he could reach. It was ...charming. Troubling, in its own way, yet endearing.

There would be no moving, of course. Saurfang resigned himself to a morning spent trapped by the sprawl of the young king’s limbs. He hooked his only free arm behind his head and settled in to wait.

After a short time he became aware of something in the room that hadn’t been there the night before: a pile of neatly folded cloth—blue and gold, of course, like everything else in Stormwind’s great keep. It sat on the bedside table, topped with a piece of parchment. Saurfang reached over, careful not to jostle Anduin and wake him, and picked up both the cloth and the note. It unfolded in his hand, revealing a long, broad tabard. There were no markings to be found, no extravagant lion’s head emblazoned upon the chest as he might have expected. Just a plain tabard in a rough, sturdy weave, and a simple border of gold threading. It was, Saurfang noted with a smirk, far too large for the king.

The note only confirmed his suspicions. It was written in script so elaborate that it took him a moment to recall which words he was reading in Common.

_If only to help conceal the target on your back._

And then, scrawled far less elegantly at the bottom:

_Do not mistake this for approval._

Saurfang set the tabard and the note back where he had found them. He considered it a marked improvement that Greymane had clearly entered the king’s chambers at some point and _not_ immediately set out to kill him.

Perhaps, he thought as he slowly drifted back to sleep, Anduin might appreciate that they had at least come that far.

 

  
When Saurfang woke again, it was to an entirely different sort of warmth. He groaned and clenched his jaw; Anduin’s mouth was on his cock, working him slowly, swallowing him down until he could feel the tight squeeze of the boy’s slender throat. In the past he had seemed determined to take more and more into his mouth each time, and he appeared to have succeeded. When Saurfang looked down between his legs he was greeted by the sight of Anduin’s mouth stuffed full of his cock. That alone was nearly enough to undo him. He let his head fall back on the bed and tried to think of something other than coming.

“ _Mm,_ ” Anduin hummed, lifting up and pulling his mouth off with a slick sound that Saurfang was sure would haunt his dreams for some time. “Good, you’re awake.”

He wanted to ask how anyone might have expected him to sleep through the eager ministrations of the young king’s very talented mouth, but the words were lost in a groan as Anduin swallowed him down again.

“Where…” he tried to ask, but a long, languid roll of Anduin’s tongue silenced him. He pulled at the bedsheets and arched his neck until the bones ached in protest. “Where did the—” he groaned despite himself, “—King of Stormwind learn to do _this?_ ”

Somehow, with no more than two wet lips slowly brushing the head of his cock, Anduin still managed to drive him mad. “I’ve spent my life surrounded by soldiers, Varok,” he said slowly. “You learn a thing or two.”

Distantly Saurfang wondered exactly what that was supposed to mean, but it was swept aside by a jolt of pleasure as Anduin withdrew his clever little mouth and moved lower, sliding down the length of Saurfang’s shaft until he reached the base—and then even lower still. He felt the warmth of a contented sigh on his balls, and nearly bit through his own lip. Anduin wasted absolutely no time; he first licked a broad stripe across the sensitive flesh, and then set to work sucking on first one, and then the other, and somewhere between the two Saurfang heard the sound of cloth tearing and realized he was once more destroying a bed.

Anduin hummed against his skin, and Saurfang huffed at the unexpected sensation. “Roll over,” he said, still lazily licking, nibbling, and suckling at him as though Saurfang’s body was some sort of treat. It left a heady buzz vibrating through his skull, and he found it difficult to focus on what was being said.

“Let me thank you for helping to rescue me,” Anduin insisted. “Please, Varok.”

Finally, and with great effort, Saurfang willed himself to move. Giving up the feeling of Anduin’s tongue and the heat of his mouth was almost agony, but he lifted himself and, with a grunt, collapsed atop the bed again, this time on his front. He awaited whatever it was that Anduin seemed to think was so—

A shocked growl tore from him, interrupting his thoughts, when he felt the first brush of Anduin’s lips across the bare skin at the top of his thigh. The gentle caress continued, trailing up across his backside, skimming the cleft of his ass, and down again. Anduin laughed lightly, and the feather-light feeling of his breath made Saurfang’s skin prickle with excitement.

“You’re shivering,” Anduin said. He sounded amazed and rather proud of himself, and his hands came down upon either side of Saurfang’s ass to knead the flesh. “Do you like this?”

Did he? It was unlike anything he had ever felt before. He wasn’t certain how to feel about it, really. “It is… different,” he answered, trying not to squirm. Anduin’s fingers were sliding across his skin now, his fingertips coming to rest between his thighs. They were just shy of touching anything he would have expected—and hoped—might have been their goal. The urge to sit up and pull Anduin down onto his lap was overwhelming.

“Don’t move,” Anduin instructed. He said it as though he knew what Saurfang was thinking, and, he supposed, he probably did. His arousal had to be obvious, even with his cock pressed into the bed below him.

As he thought of it, Saurfang suddenly realized that he could flex his hips and relieve some of the pressure building in him. He gave a short, experimental thrust, and was rewarded with a spike of pleasure—immediately followed by a sharp sting of pain as Anduin slapped him. On the backside. Like a child.

Saurfang pushed himself up on his elbows and turned to look over his shoulder at Anduin, who only met his glare with one of his own, defiant and implacable. “Don’t _move_ ,” he repeated sternly.

With an indignant huff, Saurfang let himself fall back to the bed. He did as he’d been told, and even spread his thighs when Anduin prompted, half-rising onto his knees and exposing himself. That was another strange feeling, but he was quickly becoming used to it; Anduin seemed fascinated with that end of him, with licking, kissing, and nuzzling him in places he had largely considered irrelevant on his own body. The feeling was… pleasurable. Quite arousing, actually. Saurfang found himself making small, pleased sounds, grunting and gasping when a finger brushed his balls, or he felt Anduin’s teeth nip his flesh.

It was the sudden and unexpected touch of the boy’s hot tongue to his hole that made Saurfang nearly jump out of his skin. He knew he’d growled, and he could feel the torn bedsheets balled in his fists, but he kept his cheek pressed to the blanket below him. He was panting, huffing each breath as though he had run clear across the Barrens, and when Anduin began to lick and nibble in earnest, he nearly ceased breathing entirely.

The torturous motions of Anduin’s tongue stopped, and Saurfang surprised himself with a needy whine that escaped before he could stop it. He did not _whine_. He did not _beg_. But he was dangerously close to becoming a blubbering mess and doing both with abandon. A moment later he heard familiar wet sounds from Anduin’s mouth, and then a slick finger returned where the squirming tip of a tongue had been before. Saurfang groaned long and low and buried his face in the bed as Anduin breached him slowly, sliding as far as his smaller fingers could reach.

Then the tongue returned.

Obeying was no longer an option, and not moving was simply out of the question. Saurfang was rutting against the bed, his hips rocking in time with his own sharp gasps and the endless push and pull of Anduin’s finger—no, _fingers_ , now. He could feel the wet spot beneath him growing as he thrust into the blankets, and through the pounding of his own pulse he heard himself making sounds he would have been ashamed of under any other circumstances. Anduin’s tongue circled the stretched muscle around his fingers, and Saurfang jolted. He spread his fingers wide, and Saurfang moaned when he felt the tip of Anduin’s tongue slide between them.

It continued for too long, and not nearly long enough; Saurfang was a sweating, trembling wreck by the time Anduin withdrew his deft fingers and his wicked tongue and sat back on his heels. He thought that was the end of it. He was surprised to find himself so deeply disappointed that it could not continue longer. A moment, an hour—he didn’t much care.

“You’ve done so well,” Anduin said, rubbing a soothing hand over his hips. He moved up Saurfang’s body and draped himself across his back, and his mouth reappeared to kiss and bite a trail from one shoulder blade to the other. His hands were on Saurfang’s flanks, fingernails lightly scratching his skin and making him jerk at the unexpected sensation. He felt a sharp bite at the base of his neck and growled. Anduin made an apologetic sound. “I’m marking what’s mine,” he said. “And you are _mine_ , Varok. Just as I’m yours.”

The possessive words, the way Anduin was so freely exploring his body, somehow made Saurfang _want_ to surrender. The feeling was as unfamiliar as Anduin’s tongue had been, and he found himself wondering if perhaps it might not feel just as good.

He relaxed and forced himself to let go. His fingers unclenched, the muscles of his shoulders and back went slack. His eyes closed of their own accord. Anduin’s cock was hot and hard against his back, and he focused on the way it felt as Anduin moved atop him. His soft skin. The cooling trail of damp it left as he slowly rocked his hips. Anduin’s mouth had returned, and Saurfang felt each bite, knew the bruises they would leave, and reveled in the mix of pleasure and pain. His efforts to remain still had been completely abandoned, but Anduin didn’t seem to mind anymore; he grasped what he could of Saurfang’s hips and ground against his backside as they both moved, in tandem, with each thrust. He thought he might come just from that, overwhelmed in ways he had never experienced before, but Anduin seemed to have other ideas: he sat up suddenly, once again leaving Saurfang searching for more of what had brought him so close to the edge.

“Stay there,” he heard Anduin say behind him. He was across the room, doing something Saurfang couldn’t identify from sound alone. He heard bare feet on stone, the clink of glass, and then a smaller body bending the bed as he returned to kneel between Saurfang’s spread knees.

The first drop of something warm and slick brought all of the tension racing back to him as though he had been struck by a shaman’s lightning. “What—”

Anduin shushed him. “Trust me,” he said.

Saurfang did trust him. But he remained wary as he slowly set his cheek to the bed again. His nostrils flared and he felt his heart thrumming in his chest. He had a feeling he knew what Anduin aimed to do, and he wasn’t sure that he would like it.

The return of a finger, now slicked with oil, confirmed his suspicions. Saurfang started to sit up, but Anduin placed a hand on his back and urged him down again, and despite himself, he obeyed. He allowed Anduin to spread the oil, which he did in slow, careful strokes. His finger slipped inside and more of the velvety liquid went with it, making Saurfang wet and ready.

“I want to feel you around me,” Anduin murmured. He had finished his preparations, and was shuffling up the bed on his knees. He stopped between Saurfang’s thighs. “Can I?” he asked.

There was still some proud part of him that made Saurfang feel as though he should object, say no, and do the taking himself, instead. He envisioned flipping Anduin onto his belly and pushing into him, driving him deeper into the plush bedding with each stroke. He wanted to hear the boy’s cries muffled by the blankets, and watch _him_ pull uselessly at the sheets while he worked himself to climax against them. He wanted a great many things. Anduin, it seemed, wanted something else. And more than anything, Saurfang knew he wanted to give Anduin what it was he wanted.

He nodded, and Anduin’s fingers flexed on his hips. “Thank you,” he whispered. The head of his cock nudged Saurfang’s hole, and then it slipped inside. Anduin pushed for just a few seconds before he stopped again. He had fallen down onto his hands over Saurfang’s back, breathless—from bliss or exertion, it was impossible to tell. After a moment he began to move again, this time not stopping until he was seated to the base. He was hot where his skin was pressed to Saurfang’s.

“I’ve never—I’ve never,” he stammered, and then he moved, it seemed, without intending to. He pulled back and jerked forward again, and he gulped in air before saying, “I’m sorry.”

Saurfang could barely think to wonder why he was apologizing. The burn of being opened up and invaded by Anduin’s cock was fading into a kind of pleasure he had not anticipated. Had never even considered for himself. He felt Anduin shift again, and realized he had placed one foot flat on the bed, and was using it to change his angle and deepen his thrusts. It felt… It felt _exquisite_. Each plunge dragged at Saurfang’s sensitive skin and drew a moan from him that he made no attempt to muffle. He reached back and grasped Anduin’s hip with one hand to urge him faster, and Anduin obliged.

“Varok, it’s—you’re so _hot_ inside,” Anduin hissed, still thrusting. He had one hand firmly on the center of Saurfang’s back, and the other holding the top of his thigh in an iron grip. “I didn’t know it would be like this,” he confessed. “I didn’t know.” He dropped his forehead to Saurfang’s back and threw his whole body into every thrust.

He could tell that Anduin would not last long. He knew the boy, knew his body, and he could feel the way he hesitated and stilled in turns. He was trying to make it last, but it would not work. And if he’d had doubts before... Saurfang grit his teeth and pushed back. “Make it deep,” he growled, reassuring Anduin and inviting him to let go.

He heard a strangled gasp behind him, and then Anduin’s hips stuttered and he slammed forward, still pumping deep into Saurfang as he came. His movements were almost violent, his fingernails digging into Saurfang’s back. His feet pushed at the bed and he caught his breath as he shuddered through it and slowly came to a stop. Finally the air exploded from his lungs in one great rush, and he went almost entirely limp. Saurfang could feel him there, draped like a wet rag, his slender limbs lying uselessly upon the bed.

Several seconds later Anduin turned his head and kissed Saurfang’s back. “Thank you,” he said again.

He sat up and very, _very_ gingerly pulled out. Saurfang could feel his hips and legs twitching even as he did so. It was all so much more arousing than he would have expected it to be. The warmth of Anduin’s come leaking out of him, the sweat that had dripped upon his back—even the cuts and bruises from Anduin’s unchecked ecstasy—it all blended together to form a heady cocktail of lust that had Saurfang still breathless and wound tight. When Anduin fell to the bed beside him he immediately turned and swept the boy into his arms.

“Varok?” Anduin asked, plainly confused. He made a startled sound when Saurfang lifted his leg enough to slide his hard, aching cock between Anduin’s pale thighs, and then he seemed to understand. He lowered his own leg, and wrapped his free arm around Saurfang’s neck.

The sweat on Anduin’s skin, combined with the oil that had been smeared between their bodies, made the slide of his cock nearly effortless. But Anduin squeezed his legs together to give him more friction, and Saurfang growled in thanks. He pulled Anduin onto him over and over, propped up on his elbow, lost in the warmth and softness that surrounded him; the muscle and soft skin of his king’s thighs on his cock. It was bliss.

“Let me have it, Varok,” Anduin begged. He was holding Saurfang’s arm with one hand to steady himself, his blue eyes screwed shut. He had his lower lip caught between his teeth. “On my skin, between my legs, please,” he whispered. His eyes opened just a fraction, dark as the ocean and full of need, and Saurfang was lost.

It came upon him swiftly. He continued to thrust as he came, doing exactly as Anduin had asked, and he heard a quiet, contented hum when the last of it had been spent upon his skin, the sheets, and even Saurfang himself. Anduin released his arm and let his eyes slide shut again. He appeared very pleased with himself.

Saurfang supposed that wasn’t unreasonable, given what had just happened. It took a great effort to make him lose control—or a very beautiful, very eager king.

He watched as Anduin slowly rubbed his own thighs together. The slick sound they made was almost enough to set his blood pounding again. Instead he reached out and pulled Anduin close to him. “Give an injured orc a moment to recover,” he muttered.

Anduin huffed petulantly, but Saurfang knew it was only teasing; he settled down and became still, and for a time they were peaceful and the room was silent. The sun was up, and birds tittered beyond the colored glass windows. The rest of the castle’s inhabitants would be wide awake and hard at work already, and there they were, lazing about, wrapped in each others’ arms. It was almost perfect.

After too short a time Anduin asked, “Would an injured orc like some breakfast?” He was already extracting himself from the bed, and Saurfang’s arms, as he spoke.

“How can you possess so much energy after all of that.” He referred to the events in Darkshore, of course, not what they had just done, but it hardly mattered much when both had the same result.

“Sleep will do that for you,” Anduin answered dismissively. He left the room and returned a moment later bearing a pair of trousers. Clean ones, this time. He spared a moment to wipe the mess from between his legs with a cloth and hopped—actually _hopped_ —into them. “And my injuries weren’t nearly as severe as yours.”

“I’ve dealt with worse,” Saurfang reminded him. “Stop moving so much.” He was hard to look at, flitting about like a sprite darter.

“As have I. And I know from experience that a good meal will do wonders to restore the body. The Light can heal you, but it doesn’t replace the blood you lost.” He paused. “Sausage.”

Saurfang made a face.

“For breakfast.”

“Oh.”

“Or,” Anduin said, crawling into the bed and over Saurfang, coming to a stop straddling his waist. “Would you prefer to eat something else?”

Saurfang spared a glance down. He laughed and let his head fall back against the pillow. “Youth.”

Anduin hummed happily and scurried off again. This time he disappeared into the anteroom, and Saurfang heard the door open, followed by an exchange between Anduin and what he presumed was one of the SI:7 agents dubiously playing a guardsman outside. When he returned Saurfang gave him a curious look.

“The servants will bring something shortly,” Anduin explained. “How would you like to have breakfast in bed? Or, at least… the _bedroom?_ ”

It sounded to Saurfang like another silly human frivolity, but, he supposed, he was living in the heart of the human capital. He nodded.

“Good!” Anduin disappeared again, this time into an adjacent room that Saurfang knew from his own blind exploration of the king’s quarters was mainly a place for his endless bounty of robes, coats, and other clothing. He emerged carrying a pile of brown leather and cloth. “You can dress in these,” he said, tossing them onto the foot of the bed.

Saurfang sat up and plucked the garments from where they had landed in a heap. “These are…” They were near-replicas of his own clothes, and that alone was surprising, but they also seemed to be finely tailored, as well.

“I had them made for you. Before Darkshore, actually. I thought you might like to have something else to wear besides the armor you had on when you were—well.” He smiled sheepishly and shrugged one shoulder. “Captured,” he said at last. “Go on, they’ll fit.”

“And you did this for what reason?”

Finally Anduin ceased his endless movement, and came to a stop beside the small table he had been clearing of books and scrolls. “I suppose… because I had hoped you might like to stay,” he said. His tone was wary, but undeniably hopeful. He worked his lower lip between his teeth. “And I—well, I—”

When he didn’t continue, Saurfang chose to spare him the embarrassment. He had that much mercy in him, after all. “I’ll have something to wear with that, at least,” he said as he stood up and stretched. He indicated the tabard Greymane had left on the bedside table.

“Is that what I think it is?” Anduin asked. He had either forgotten his moment of uncertainty, or chosen to pretend it hadn’t happened. Saurfang was not interested in pressing the matter either way; it was unsteady ground for the both of them, and they had been through enough already.

He smirked. “Seems I impressed your pet dog.”

“I wouldn’t count on it lasting if you keep calling him that.”

“I’ll stop when he does,” Saurfang muttered under his breath. He set about dressing himself. Anduin had been telling the truth: the leather trousers and tunic fit him perfectly. They were in far better shape than his other clothing, too. He turned and gave the blue and gold tabard a hard look, and then decided to leave it. For the time being.

A knock at the main door roused Anduin back to activity, and he dashed out of the room with far too much enthusiasm for a mere breakfast. He returned carrying a tray loaded with so much food that even Saurfang thought it a bit excessive.

“You’re not the only one who’s hungry,” Anduin said to his unspoken criticism as he began moving objects from the tray to the table. In between rearranging small pitchers of unidentifiable substances, separating little plates, and plucking out the utensils, he popped several small pieces of fruit and pastry into his mouth. He finally looked up at Saurfang, who had not yet taken a seat with him. He made a broad gesture and held his arms out wide, as if to ask,  _‘Well?’_

Frowning, Saurfang took a seat. It wasn’t a proper table, really, but rather it seemed to be a dinner table, desk, and—if some of the rolled up parchment he’d spotted earlier was anything to go by—an informal map table. He assumed it was whatever the young king needed it to be at the moment. But that was simply Anduin’s way; there was no effort wasted on ceremony, no thought to having tables crafted for every use. He simply made do with what was there, and that was enough for him. Saurfang liked that about him.

They ate mostly in silence, apart from the occasional exchange of pleasantries. It was a quiet event, and a stark counterpoint to Anduin’s earlier exuberance.

After some time, when most of the food had been picked over, Saurfang asked, “You said something, earlier?” and left the admittedly vague question open for Anduin to interpret on his own.

It took a moment, but eventually Anduin seemed to understand what he meant. He made a show of piling the remaining pastries on his own plate before he answered. “Yes. That was... my first time,” he said. Rather shyly, given how he had approached the subject in the past. Not to mention how he had approached it when they were in bed together.

Saurfang only gave him a curious look. He knew Anduin would continue, eventually. There was no need to rush him. In truth, he wasn’t entirely comfortable with so openly discussing it himself. Boasting of conquests around a fire with other warriors was one thing; an intimate discussion between partners was something else entirely.

“Doing that, I mean,” Anduin said after a long pause.

“Your first time doing the taking, rather than—”

“Rather than, yes.” Anduin cleared his throat, took another bite of something Saurfang had found too sweet to stomach, and cleared his throat again. “A member of the royal household must be careful where he takes his pleasure,” he said, saying the words as though reciting some text. “A necessary... precaution.”

“I see. Well, you have no need to worry I’ll present you with a bastard heir,” Saurfang said. He couldn’t hide his laughter when it caused Anduin to nearly choke on his drink.

“Imagine how Genn would react to _that!_ ” Anduin sputtered. He dabbed at his face with a napkin and smiled. “Treacherous guardsmen would be the least of my worries, then.”

“Mine as well.”

Anduin chuckled again. He set his napkin down in his lap and started to reach for his plate, but stopped. He furrowed his brow. “Was it yours?” he asked.

“Was what mine?” Saurfang knew what he meant, of course, but there was some stubborn part of himself that refused to simply answer the question without making Anduin say it first. A small victory with no purpose.

“Your first, uh, time. Being—” Anduin hesitated. “Taken.” He was actually blushing. As though he hadn’t been the one to do it.

After counting out nearly a minute, Saurfang decided he could avoid the truth no longer. “Yes,” he said.

Anduin’s eyes grew wide, and then he caught himself and simply responded, “Ah.”

They both fell silent, with only the incessant chatter of the birds outside to punctuate the vacuum that had suddenly formed between them. It was Anduin who finally broke the moment and dared to speak, and Saurfang admired him for it, because he had not yet found the strength to do so himself. “Did you like it?” he asked. He was staring at the far wall, as though he expected to be rebuffed, and had prepared himself for it.

Saurfang smiled. Asking that had taken a great deal of courage, and it deserved an answer. “Very much,” he admitted. He reached across the short table and lifted Anduin’s chin so that they were looking at one another again. “ _Very_ much.”

Anduin smiled the bright, vital smile that Saurfang had come to love. To hope he would see on the young king’s face each day. “I’m glad,” he said.

Saurfang grinned despite himself, finding he could not deny his gratitude for the strange way that fate had seen to guide them both. They had weathered hardship and come through whole. Other difficulties would arise, of course. No fool could be blind to what lay ahead. But watching Anduin smile at him from across the table, he knew that those, too, would be faced and defeated in time. The war within him raged on, but for now, he was at ease. He was happy.

For now, he was home.

 

* * *

 

  
**Epilogue**

 

  
The great doors of Grommash Hold opened ahead of the goblin as he hurried past the guards and into the dark structure. Braziers were lit along the walls, and lamps hung from above, but the room in which the warchief sat still seemed oppressively dark. Above her hung the skull of Mannoroth, tremendous and imposing. Sylvanas herself was seated upon the throne, reclining easily in the seat, one leg draped across the knee of the other.

“This goblin has come from Darkshore,” one of the guards announced. “He says he has important information regarding the recent events there.”

She made a small gesture—no more than a flick of her fingers—and the guards vanished at once. They barely made a sound as they swiftly filed from the room, leaving the goblin alone with the Dark Lady.

“W-warchief,” he said, bowing perhaps too deeply. Better to be overcautious, he reasoned to himself as he stared at the floor.

“Rise,” she commanded. “And tell me what it is that you claim is so urgent it required you to abandon your duties and scurry to my door.”

The goblin took a deep breath. He stood straight and tall—well, relatively tall, anyway. “Honestly,” he said, “I’m not sure you’re gonna believe this. _Any_ of it. I hardly believe it myself! I mean, I thought the stuff with the kid was weird enough, but then I followed him and that old Gilnean king, and, well, here goes…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to jump into writing the next part pretty much right away, so I expect chapter one of the new story will be out soon...ish.


End file.
